EUGENE    WOOD 


-J 


LIBRARY 

UN  t VARSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


OUR  TOWN 


"  Samatter  witches?  "  you'd  say. 


OUR  TOWN 


BY 

EUGENE  WOOD 

Author  of  "Back  Home" 

Illustrated  by 
J.  R.  Shaver  and  Horace  Taylor 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

Sltr  (6nrhum  fclrras 
BOSTON 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 

All  Rights  Reserved 

Entered  at  Stationers'   Hall 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

THE  FOLKS  OF 
OUR  TOWN 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 13 

THE  OLD  TIME  REVIVAL 49 

THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 89 

THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 137 

THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 169 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"  Samatter  witches?  "  you'd  say   .      .      .      .  Frontispiece 

And  will  blow  on  it  to  see I? 

You  felt  the  shivers  running  all  over  you      .      .      .  27 

Elsie,  in  her  stars-and-stripes  dress 31 

Took  delight  in  wrestling 90 

They  had  to  buy  melodeons  and  pianos  ....  92 

Now,  take  the  Swiss  Bell-ringers 94 

The  elocution  teacher  came  to  town        ....  95 

The  fellow  that  played  the  "  tooby  "  could  go  down 
to  the  barn 9$ 

Has  to   keep  one  ear  hung  out  for  the  rattle  of  a 
W'agon 99 

He  crashes  through  the  hazel  bush 101 

You  heard  what  Brother  Longnecker  said  about  that   103 
"  Coin    to  the  Opry-House  to-night? "   .      .      .      .105 

To  set  a  good  example  to  the  young ill 

"  Au,  that  ain't  nothing,"  said  he 114 

One  day   the  man   that  papered  your   house   left  a 
ticket  for  you .      .      .122 

You  were  in  the  front  row 123 

The  colored  band  from  the  South  End       .      .      .      .125 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

To  be  continued  in  our  next 127 

When  was  it  you  began  to  subscribe  for  a  theatrical 
paper? I3I 

Its  petals  were  kind  of  droopy 171 

D'ye  reckon  Barzillai'll  come  in  for  his  sheer?  ,      .175 

No  good  at  all  for  chewing  wax 182 

There  were  haircloth  sofas 185 

Her  husband  was  afraid igo 

I  don't  know  what  kinds  of  yarbs 197 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 


1 


say  every  dog  has  his   day.     I 
don't  remember  just  when  the  dog-days 
come  —  some  time  in  hot  weather,  I  be 
lieve —  but   I'll  swear  the   Fourth   of 
July  isn't  one  of  them. 

I  never  had  a  hunting-dog,  so  I  am  prepared 
to  believe  that  one  of  them  might  put  up  with  the 
boisterous  noises  that  gunpowder  makes.  Per 
haps  he  might  even  come  to  find  that  the  shot 
gun's  disconcerting  bang!  which  at  first  made  him 
jump  part  way  out  of  his  hide,  imparted  to  his 
nerves  a  titillating  rasp,  very  desirable.  But 
when  I  consider  the  Fourth  of  July  as  related  to 
dogs  I  have  in  mind  the  ordinary  four-legged 
garbage-can,  the  dear  companion  of  our  youth, 
Maje,  or  Tige,  or  Bounce,  or  Gyp,  or  Fido,  or 
Spot,  or  whatever  he  was  named,  that  long  ago 
has  gone  before  us  in  the  way  we  too  must  walk 
one  day.  Poor  old  dog!  When  he  laid  his  muz- 

13 


OUR  TOWN 

zle  on  our  knee,  and  looked  so  longingly  at  us 
with  his  big  brown  eyes,  I  know  his  soul  flung  it 
self  despairingly  at  the  thin  partition  of  speechless- 
ness  that  separated  him  from  us.  Poor  old  dog! 
He  was  neither  useful  nor  ornamental.  He  was 
just  a  hanger-on,  and  could  pay  for  his  keep  only 
with  his  company,  but  he  was  none  the  less  beloved 
for  all  that.  Lots  of  men  have  no  better  excuse 
for  being. 

On  other  feasts  and  fasts,  when  anything  was 
going  on,  he  was  right  there,  Johnny-on-the-Spot, 
close  to  the  footlights  in  the  center  of  the  stage, 
but  on  the  Nation's  Birthday  his  native  modesty 
asserted  itself  and  he  withdrew  from  public  gaze. 

"  How  would  it  be,"  we  asked  each  other  after 
the  first  few  firecrackers,  when  an  awfully  funny 
notion  struck  us,  "  how  would  it  be  if  we  took  and 
tied  — "  The  knowing  look  passed  from  eye  to 
eye.  "Where  is  he?  H-yuh  Spot!  H-yuh 
Spot!  H-yuh!  H-yuh!  Whoo-eet!" 

Wouldn't  he  act  funny,  though?  He  wouldn't 
know  what  struck  him.  H-yuh  Spot!  Why, 
where  was  the  darn  dog? 

14 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

For  he  came  not  bounding  to  us,  wiping  his 
paws  on  our  clean  waists  that  our  Ma  had  put  on 
us  that  day  with :  "  Now,  don't  burn  any  holes 
in  that,"  and  "  Don't  you  get  it  to  looking  like  a 
mop  inside  of  five  minutes."  He  did  not  leap 
upon  us,  licking  our  faces  in  moist  caress.  We 
hunted  him  high  and  low. 

"H-yuh  Spot!  H-yuh  Spot!  — The  barn! 
Betchy  anything  he's  in  under  the  barn." 

We  sought  the  hole  he  usually  crawled  in. 
Away,  'way  over  in  the  far  corner  we  made  out 
two  flaming  red  disks,  that  bashfully  averted  them 
selves  when  we  began  our  blandishments. 

"  Noi-oi-oice  old  doggie !  Ya-a-ase,  he  was  a 
noice  old  fellah.  Come  here.  Come  here."  In 
vain  we  fluted  the  word  "  Come  "  and  expressed 
an  almost  tearful  affection.  We  could  hear  his 
tail  thump,  and  he  whined  as  much  as  to  say  he'd 
like  awfully  to  oblige,  but  really  we'd  have  to  ex 
cuse  him  this  time. 

Now,  what  I  want  to  know  is:  What  put  him 
wise  to  what  we  were  up  to?  Was  it  talked 
around  in  dog  society  about  firecrackers  tied  to 

15 


OUR  TOWN 

tails?  There  was  a  forsaken,  homeless  fice  came 
down  South  Main  Street  on  a  Fourth,  and  made 
friends  with  a  fellow  in  front  of  Ryan's  place,  a 
fellow  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  who  would 
sacrifice  a  whole  pack  of  firecrackers  as  lief  as  not. 
Well,  sir,  that  dog  just  about  tore  up  the  earth 
getting  away  from  there  when  the  popping  began. 
He  banged  into  everything,  and  squalled  "  Ah- 
oop !  Ah-oop  !  "  in  shrill  falsetto.  The  funniest 
thing  you  ever  heard  of.  Aaron  Williams,  who 
kept  the  tin-shop,  like  to  hurt  himself  laughing. 
He  screamed,  and  slapped  his  legs,  and  stamped 
on  the  ground  in  an  ecstasy  of  mirth.  The  fice 
crawled  under  the  tin-shop  (which  was  right  next 
to  the  cooper-shop)  and  it  promptly  took  fire  and 
burned  to  the  ground.  Aaron  laughed  out  of  the 
other  side  of  his  mouth  at  that. 

But,  even  suppose  Spot  had  heard  talk  of  that, 
how  could  he  remember?  It's  a  mighty  long  time 
from  one  Fourth  of  July  to  another,  I'll  have  you 
understand.  (Or  at  least  it  used  to  be  so.  It's 
got  so  now  they  whiz  a-past  so  fast  you  get  a  crick 
in  the  neck  from  watching  them.)  Why  should 

16 


And  will  blow  on  it  to  see. 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

a  dog  remember  that  firecrackers  are  dangerous 
things,  when  a  boy  can't?  I'll  bet  you  any  money 
that  this  coming  Fourth  there'll  be  at  least  half  a 
dozen  boys  who  will  wonder  (all  new,  as  if  it  had 
never  been  done  before)  if  the  fuse  of  a  giant  fire 
cracker  hasn't  gone  out,  and  will  blow  on  it  to  see, 
and  will  find  it  hasn't  gone  out,  and  —  well,  don't 
let's  begin  the  horrible  part  of  it  so  soon. 

Only,  I  marvel  why  Spot  should  have  crawled 
under  the  barn  before  the  day  got  really  good  and 
going. 

And,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  don't  remember 
seeing  much  of  the  cat  on  that  day  either.  Come 
anywhere  near  him  ordinarily,  and  he  would  thin 
his  body  upward,  and  rub  his  hairs  off  on  your  leg, 
purring  like  a  coffee-mill,  but  if  you  saw  him  this 
day,  he  was  all  scrooched  up,  and  gave  you  a  malig 
nant  glare,  as  much  as  to  say:  "You're  the 
young  divvle  that  tied  my  feet  up  in  papers,  ain't 
ye?  You  dast  to  lay  a  hand  on  me  — "  And  as 
you  took  one  step  toward  him,  he  was  gone  like 
lightning  in  a  cloud. 

I  seem  to  recollect  a  buggy  splintered  and  slid- 
19 


OUR  TOWN 

ing  on  its  side,  with  a  man  dragged  by  the  lines, 
his  face  as  white  as  putty  except  for  a  thin  trickle 
of  blood  on  the  forehead.  It  seems  to  me  I  smell 
firecrackers  as  I  see  this,  but  whether  in  memory 
or  imagination  I  cannot  say  for  certain.  Never 
theless,  I  believe  that  dogs  and  cats  and  horses 
and  Mas  do  not  approve  of  the  Glorious 
Fourth. 

However  it  might  be  with  them,  it  was  certainly 
the  Day  of  Days  for  the  rest  of  us.  Other  festi 
vals  connoted  hatreds  of  the  other  fellows,  pen 
ning  the  flock  off  into  little  coops  of  ancient  re 
ligious  and  racial  spats  and  feuds.  But  on  Our 
Country's  Birthday  all  these  partitions  and  spite- 
fences  came  down.  Rich  and  poor,  high  and  low, 
white  and  black,  Republican  and  Democrat,  Jew 
and  Gentile,  Catholic  and  Protestant,  native-born 
and  foreign-born  forgot  for  once  their  petty  anti 
social  meannesses,  and  joined  in  the  celebration  of 
the  day  whereon  a  whole  people  cried  out  in  the 
hearing  of  an  unbelieving  world  that  God  had 
made  all  men  free  and  equal,  and  bestowed  upon 
them  rights  that  cannot  be  bargained  away  or 

20 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

overridden  by  force  —  the  rights  to  life  and 
liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  Everywhere 
floated  the  Flag  "  whose  banners  make  tyranny 
tremble,"  and  in  every  home  Ma  tied  up  burnt 
fingers  with  apple-butter  and  a  rag. 

It  is  fine  to  think  that  upon  this  day,  all  over 
this  broad  land  of  ours,  we  lay  aside  our  business 
and  pay  our  homage  to  a  doctrine  that  we  respect 
even  if  we  do  think  it  is  too  righteous  to  be  prac 
tical.  "All  over  this  broad  land,"  did  I  say? 
Ah,  me  !  I  wish  it  were  so.  But  they  tell  me  that 
in  southern  Indiana  Fourth  of  July  is  little  thought 
of,  not  half  so  much  as  the  Annual  Celebration 
of  the  Morehead  Settlement,  whatever  that  may 
be.  They  shut  up  the  stores,  it's  true,  but  they 
save  their  shooting  crackers  and  their  fireworks 
for  Christmas  Day!  For  Christmas  Day! 
Isn't  that  Hoosier  for  you?  Why,  punk-sticks 
and  scraps  of  red  paper  smoldering  in  the  gutter, 
and  empty  Roman  candle  tubes  that  you  can  blow 
on  like  a  bottle  belong  in  hot  weather,  not  when 
there's  snow  on  the  ground.  They  can't  make 
me  think  Indiana  is  really  civilized,  I  don't  care 

21 


OUR  TOWN 

how  many  literary  geniuses  come  from  there,  when 
the  people  act  like  that. 

Speaking  of  Christmas  Day,  Fourth  of  July  re 
sembles  it  in  just  one  respect,  early  rising.  On 
Christmas  Day  you  want  to;  on  Fourth  of  July 
you  have  to.  You  may  be  having  ever  so  thrill 
ing  a  dream;  you  may  be  clinging  by  finger-hold 
to  the  slanting  top  of  a  granite  cliff  nine  miles 
high,  and  polished  like  Colonel  Hoosey's  monu 
ment  in  the  cemetery.  You  can't  go  on  with  your 
dream  after  that  vociferous  "  Boong!  "  that  rat 
tles  on  your  windows  just  before  sunup.  "  Yes !  " 
you  cry,  "  I'm  up !  "  your  daily  lie,  this  morning 
utterly  unnecessary,  as  you  sheepishly  realize  the 
moment  after.  It's  a  waste  of  time  to  try  to  turn 
over  for  another  nap.  In  the  early  days  of  our 
Republic  you  might  have  counted  off  thirteen  loud 
"  Boongs  "  and  composed  yourself  for  more  slides 
over  the  edges  of  granite  cliffs ;  but  now  that  there 
are —  How  many  are  there  now?  Be-switched 
if  I  can  keep  track  of  'em. 

And,  by  the  way,  did  you  know  that  one  Fourth 
they  wouldn't  shoot  off  but  twelve  guns?  The 

22 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

old  Confederation  had  petered  out,  and  all  but 
little  Rhody  had  come  under  the  "  new  roof  " 
of  the  Constitution.  In  those  days  there  wasn't 
any  Senator  Aldrich  to  hold  the  rest  of  the  coun 
try  up  by  the  tail,  and  the  other  folks  were  pretty 
hot  about  such  carryings-on.  If  little  Rhody 
hadn't  come  right  down  off  her  perch,  and  acted 
white  in  a  hurry,  they  were  going  to  put  up  tariff 
walls  against  her  goods,  and  let  her  flock  all  by 
herself  and  see  how  she  liked  it. 

In  the  matter  of  our  national  salute  at  dawn 
I  feel  a  sense  of  deep  personal  humiliation. 
Other  people  can  tell  you  interesting  stories  about 
the  cannon  they  had  in  their  town  "  back  home," 
and  how  there  was  a  rivalry  between  the  Hill 
crowd  and  the  Valley  crowd  as  to  which  should 
get  hold  of  it,  and  hide  it  from  the  others.  They 
can  tell  you  all  about  Who's-this-now  that  was 
in  such  a  hurry  he  didn't  swab  out  the  gun  good, 
and  when  What's-his-name  was  ramming  home  the 
charge,  blamed  if  she  didn't  go  off,  ker-boong! 
and  there  was  his  arm  gone,  slick  as  a  whistle. 
And  they  felt  so  terrible  that  they  went  away 

23 


OUR  TOWN 

and  left  the  cannon,  and  the  other  fellows  got 
it  and  kept  it  for  two  years.  Two  years!  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  We  didn't  have  any  can 
non.  Kind  of  a  one-horse  place,  I'm  afraid.  And 
even  if  we  had  had  one,  my  folks  wouldn't  have 
let  me  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  (I  never  had 
any  kind  of  a  time  at  all.)  To  this  day,  I  don't 
know  the  first  thing  about  loading  up  an  anvil  and 
shooting  it  off  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  I  don't 
even  know  which  is  the  trigger  end  of  an  anvil. 
But  I'm  fairly  well  posted  on  firecrackers,  little 
square  flat  packs,  you  know,  with  a  thin  red  paper 
stuck  on,  stamped  with  a  gilt  dragon  and  funny 
letters  that  didn't  spell  anything.  Each  of  us  got 
a  whole  single  pack  and  two  punk-sticks,  and  that 
had  to  last  out  the  day.  Down-town  after  dark, 
wild  fellows  that  had  lots  of  money  to  spend  used 
to  set  off  a  whole  pack  at  a  time.  That  was  reck 
less  extravagance,  but  it  was  splendid  on  that  ac 
count.  Who  cares  for  ten  cents?  Plenty  more 
where  that  came  from !  And  to  hear  the  snap 
ping  like  corn  in  a  popper,  only  more  so,  and  to 
see  the  flashes  of  light  in  the  darkness,  jerking 

24 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

this  way  and  that!  Gur-reatI  Great!  And, 
after  you'd  think  the  whole  pack  was  gone,  there'd 
be  one  solitary  snap  as  much  as  to  say:  "  Here! 
I'm  in  this  too.  You  don't  want  to  overlook  me.n 
It  was  great.  There's  no  two  ways  about  it;  it 
was  great.  But  that  was  for  the  evening  and 
somebody  else.  In  the  morning  we  had  our  own 
firecrackers  while  our  enthusiasm  still  had  a  cut 
ting  edge,  and  we  were  careful  in  disentangling 
the  crackers'  little  tails  from  the  braided  fuse  with 
which  they  interwove.  When  we  shot  one  off  it 
was  with  a  screwed-up  wincing  face  and  we  tasted 
a  fearful  joy.  We  used  to  heap  up  forts  of  dust, 
and  p'tend  the  cannons  were  pointing  out  through 
"  embrasures."  (They  had  "  embrasures  "  in 
"The  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion.")  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  the  siege-guns  would  destroy 
the  illusion  by  all  coming  apart.  If  you  broke 
off  the  end  of  one  and  touched  the  punk-stick  to 
the  black  dust  in  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  it  would 
shoot  out  fire  just  as  in  the  picture  of  the  Monitor 
and  the  Merrimac,  but  it  was  only  a  "  fizzer,"  and 
anyhow  you  don't  touch  off  a  real  cannon  from  the 

25 


OUR  TOWN 

front  end.  Still,  you  could  piece  out  a  good  deal 
with  imagination,  and,  after  all,  that's  where  the 
fun  comes  in.  I  pity  the  poor  young  ones  these 
days  that  have  toys  and  playthings  that  look  ex 
actly  like  real  things. 

It  was  also  kind  of  exciting  to  stand  on  a  fire 
cracker  and  feel  the  pleasant  jolt  it  gave  when  it 
exploded.  That  is,  it  was  pleasant  if  you  had 
shoes  on;  it  kind  o'  stung  if  you  were  barefooted. 

And  you  could  light  one  and  hold  it  in  your 
fingers  until  je-e-e-est  the  last  fractional  part  of 
a  second  when  the  fuse  was  beginning  to  act  hys 
terical  and  fidgety,  and  then  you  flung  it  up  high 
and  it  was  "  the  bomb  bursting  in  air,"  as  it  says 
in  the  "  Star-spangled  Banner."  Out  of  this  prac 
tise  developed  a  test  of  heroism  similar  in  spirit 
to  the  sun-dance  of  the  Indian  braves.  You  held 
one  in  your  fingers  (as  far  off  as  you  could,  and 
with  your  eyes  all  squinched  up)  and  felt  the  shiv 
ers  running  all  over  you  as  the  fuse  began  to 
sputter,  and  when  you  lived  through  the  shock  of 
the  explosion,  how  happy  you  were !  That  called 

26 


You  felt  the  shivers  running  all  over  you. 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

for  real  courage,  and  in  some  cases,  if  I  mistake 
not,  it  called  for  witch-hazel  too. 

And  there  was  an  intellectual  problem  in  con 
nection  with  firecrackers.  Why  was  there  one  in 
the  pack  sometimes  that  was  wrapped  with  green 
paper  instead  of  red?  I  have  puzzled  over  that 
no  little,  and  it  still  remains  the  dark  mystery  it 
always  was.  What  was  there  about  it  that  de 
served  the  green  paper?  It  wasn't  louder  than 
the  others;  it  wasn't  weaker  than  the  others,  for 
those  who  said  it  always  was  a  fizzer  generalized 
from  insufficient  data,  as  boys  are  wont  to  do.  All 
our  lives  long  we  are  jostled  and  elbowed  by  rid 
dles  we  cannot  solve,  and  this  is  one  of  them. 
Old  Maje,  who  cannot  talk,  and  we  who  cannot 
understand  —  we're  all  alike. 

Firecrackers  are  the  norm  of  Fourth  of  July. 
On  the  timid  side,  explosives  shade  off  into  the 
pink  paper  disks  that  your  little  brother  shoots 
in  a  brown  varnished  cast-iron  dummy  pistol. 

"  Now  don't  you  go  pointing  that  at  people," 
excitedly  cries  your  mother. 

"  Aw !  That  cain't  shoot  nothin',"  you  explain, 
29 


scandalized  at  her  crass  ignorance.  "  Can't  you 
see  it  don't  go  through  from  the  cap  place  to  the 
barrel?" 

"  You  don't  know  what  might  happen,"  she 
persists,  in  her  unreasoning  way.  '  You  hear  tell 
of  lots  of  people  getting  killed  with  guns  that 
weren't  loaded.  What  ever  possessed  you,  Pa, 
to  go  and  get  that  boy  a  pistol  beats  me.  You 
know  he  just  delights  in  running  headlong  into 
danger.  It  would  serve  you  right  if  he  was 
marked  for  life  with  that  thing.  Mercy  me! 
I'll  be  glad  when  this  day's  over.  Elsie !  Come 
here  to  me.  Come  away  from  that  firecracker." 

(Women  are  awful  foolish.  They  haven't  got 
near  the  sense  of  us  men- folks.) 

Elsie,  in  her  Stars-and-Stripes  frock,  has  these 
twisted  white  paper  torpedoes,  that  crack  when 
you  throw  them  hard  down  on  the  sidewalk. 
They're  very  nearly  as  loud  as  a  parlor  match 
and  a  little  safer.  They  fretted  your  mother  as 
much  as  the  firecrackers  though;  they  mussed  up 
the  place  so.  There's  nothing  that  makes  a  front 

30 


Elsie,  in  her  stars-and-stripes  dress. 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

porch  look  so  slack  as  scraps  of  paper  and  little 
bits  of  gravel. 

Beyond  the  firecracker  on  the  bold  side  was  the 
bottle  of  powder.  With  that  you  could  lay  a 
train  to  where  you  had  poured  out  quite  a  little 
heap  of  powder  and  covered  it  with  dirt.  That 
was  a  rebel  fort  you  were  going  to  blow  up.  It's 
fine  sport,  and  if  you  should  ever  meet  a  man  with 
a  glass  eye  and  a  lot  of  blue  specks  in  his  face, 
you  ask  him  if  he  doesn't  think  so,  for  it  is  almost 
certain  that  he  played  that  very  game  when  he  was 
young. 

But  away,  'way  out  on  the  bold  side  is  the  re 
volver.  Not  one  of  these  brown  varnished  cast- 
iron  things  where  it  doesn't  go  through  from  the 
cap  place  to  the  barrel,  but  the  real  thing,  a  re 
volver  that  you  can  put  real  "  cattridges  "  in  made 
out  of  real  lead  bullets,  one  that  you  can  kill  peo 
ple  with,  and  can  carry  around  in  your  hip-pocket. 
It  must  give  a  fellow  a  lot  of  moral  courage  to 
have  one.  You  could  bend  down  the  front  of 
your  Johnny  Jones  hat,  and  smack  it  up  behind, 
and  kind  of  slouch  it  over  one  eye,  and  you'd  rock 

33 


OUR  TOWN 

your  head  a  little  from  side  to  side,  and  talk  out  of 
the  corner  of  your  mouth.  "  Samatter  witches?  " 
you'd  say.  Just  like  that.  And  if  anybody  got 
too  gay  or  anything,  you  wouldn't  have  to  call 
out:  "Quit  now!  Quit,  I  tell  you.  Now  you 
just  leave  me  be!  "  No.  You'd  smile  a  baleful 
smile,  and  press  the  cold  ring  of  the  muzzle  into 
his  quivering  flesh  and  coldly  remark:  "  That'll 
be  about  all  from  you.  Un'stand?  "  And  he'd 
understand  right  away. 

Why,  talk  about  learning  how  to  box  so  as  to 
be  able  to  protect  yourself,  a  revolver  has  the 
manly  art  of  self-defense  beaten  to  a  stiff  froth. 
I  don't  care  how  handy  with  your  fists  you  might 
be,  the  other  fellow  might  be  handier,  or  he  might 
be  bigger,  or  he  mightn't  fight  according  to  the 
Marquis  of  Queensbury.  And  anyways,  you'd  be 
sure  to  be  rumpled  up  some  before  you  got 
through,  your  nose  bleeding,  or  one  eye  a  little 
puffy.  But  with  the  revolver  you  just  go  Bang! 
Bang!  and  there  he  is  flat  on  the  sidewalk. 

Any  day  in  the  year  a  revolver  is  a  fine  thing 
for  a  boy  to  have,  but  especially  is  it  a  fine  thing 

34 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

on  the  Fourth  of  July.  It  puts  you  right  up  where 
you  belong,  among  the  nobility  and  gentry.  It 
takes  you  out  of  the  ranks  of  mere  kids  that  play 
with  firecrackers.  An  old-maidish  and  fussy  pub 
lic  opinion  prescribes  blank  cartridges  when  one 
shoots  to  make  the  occasion  gay  with  noise.  I 
suppose  it's  well  to  defer  for  the  sake  of  keeping 
out  of  trouble;  but  if  it  was  me,  I'd  shoot  real 
bullets.  I  should  think  it  would  sound  nicer,  and 
there'd  be  more  excitement  in  it.  I  should  try  not 
to  kill  anybody,  of  course,  but  — 

I  don't  know  of  anything  that  more  effectively 
convinces  the  man  who  has  grown  up  and  come  to 
New  York  to  live  that  the  country  is  going  to  the 
dogs  as  fast  as  the  wheels  of  time  can  carry  it  than 
the  horrifying  discovery  that  the  metropolitan 
young  ones  begin  the  firecracker  season  along  about 
Decoration  Day,  and  keep  it  up  till  some  time  in 
August.  Well,  maybe,  it  isn't  quite  as  bad  as  that, 
but  when  you're  positive  that  the  country  is  going 
to  the  dogs,  you've  simply  got  to  make  your  state 
ments  a  leetle  strong  in  order  to  arouse  the  people 
to  their  lost  condition.  And  that  the  firecracker 

35 


OUR  TOWN 

season  should  be  prolonged  by  even  so  much  as 
one  day  is  enough  to  make  any  peace-loving  citizen 
tremble  for  our  institutions.  Oh,  my  unhappy 
country!  For  anything  they  do  in  New  York  is 
sure  to  become  all  the  go  in  the  outlying  districts 
one  of  these  days.  And  then  what  will  be  the 
use  in  fixing  your  vacation  so  that  you  will  get  the 
Fourth  out  in  the  country?  Why,  in  my  day  and 
time,  a  boy  that  would  shoot  off  a  firecracker  on 
the  third  of  July  was  a  sneak.  It  was  just  as  bad 
as  peeking  on  a  Christmas  Eve.  And  a  boy  that 
would  shoot  off  a  firecracker  on  the  fifth  of  July 
was  green  and  behind  the  times.  To  be  sure,  if 
you  happened  to  find  in  the  dewy  grass  the  next 
morning  a  firecracker  with  its  fuse  half-burnt,  you 
were  allowed  to  put  it  out  of  its  misery,  and  a 
waif  and  stray  you  might  set  off.  But  that  was 
only  to  prevent  a  wicked  waste.  It  was  on  the 
same  principle  that  you  eat  when  you  are  so  full 
you  can  hardly  crowd  it  down;  you  suffer,  so  that 
the  food  won't  have  to  be  thrown  away.  But 
to  deliberately  buy  shooting-crackers  and  set 
them  off  a  day  before  or  a  day  after  the  Fourth 

36 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

—  The  mind  reels  with  horror  from  the  bare 
suggestion.  And  yet  such  is  the  degeneracy  of 
the  age,  they  do  that  very  thing  in  New  York 
City  year  by  year  and  never  bat  an  eye. 

Along  about  dinner-time  —  well,  lunch-time, 
then,  if  you're  possessed  to  put  on  airs;  you  know 
what  I  mean,  noon  —  the  day  sort  of  petered  out. 
The  firecrackers  were  all  gone,  and  excessively 
early  rising  was  getting  in  its  deadly  work.  But 
the  main  reason,  I  do  believe,  was  the  same  that 
makes  the  grocery  man  put  in  only  about  two  inches 
of  sweet  sugar  on  the  top  of  the  barrel,  and  fill 
up  the  rest  with  sugar  that  has  a  kind  of  bitterish, 
cloying  taste.  Nothing  can  be  more  delightful 
than  an  irregular  series  of  sharp  explosions;  but 
it's  like  everything  else,  "  there  comes  a  time." 
If  I  were  a  free  man,  and  could  be  as  psycho 
logical  as  I  dog-gone  pleased,  nothing  would 
suit  me  better  than  to  cut  loose  right  here,  and 
show  you  the  cause  of  this  tendency  on  the  part 
of  metropolitan  children  to  prolong  the  excite 
ment  of  the  firecracker  season;  how,  deprived  as 
they  are  of  all  the  fun  that  they  really  ought  to 

37 


OUR  TOWN 

have,  they  seek  violent  and  unwholesome  stimula 
tion;  and  to  point  out  that  I  wasn't  altogether 
fooling  when  I  talked  about  the  degeneracy  of 
the  age.  But  they  dock  my  pay  every  time  I  get 
serious.  So  you'll  have  to  figure  it  out  for  your 
self,  or  else  read  about  it  in  some  big  book  with 
"  subjective  "  and  "  objective  "  and  "  telic  "  and 
"  genetic  "  and  all  such  cruel  and  unusual  words 
in  it. 

The  afternoon  of  the  Fourth  of  July  has  a 
strong  tendency  to  be  poky.  To  avert  this  ca 
tastrophe  many  devices  have  been  introduced. 
One  of  them  is  to  have  a  picnic.  Now,  there  are 
two  opposing  and  mutually  exclusive  schools  of 
thought  in  re  the  Fourth  of  July  picnic.  The  one 
school  holds  that  it  always  rains  on  that  afternoon; 
the  other  denies  that  proposition,  and  maintains 
that  those  who  so  vividly  recall  standing  under  a 
tree  —  a  tree  as  a  shelter  when  it  rains  pitchforks 
and  feather-beds  is  the  rankest  kind  of  a  swindle, 
and  something  ought  to  be  done  about  it  —  stand 
ing  under  a  leaky  tree  and  watching  "  the  little 
men "  jumping  in  the  lemonade-tub  while  the 

38 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

table-cloths  soak  into  sodden  rags,  and  the 
layer  cake  pitifully  dissolves,  are  really  thinking 
of  the  annual  Sabbath-school  picnic,  when  of  course 
it  rains.  I  dislike  very  much  to  take  sides  on 
any  question.  I  am  like  the  politician  who  was 
campaigning  in  a  neighborhood  divided  on  en 
tirely  non-political  lines  into  two  parties,  one 
maintaining  that  it  was  just  foolishness  to  say 
that  the  earth  turned  clear  over  every  day,  and 
the  other  that  it  must  be  so  because  it  said  so  in 
the  geography  book.  "  You  know  about  such 
things,"  they  asked  him.  "  Now,  does  it?  It 
don't,  does  it?  Not  clear  over?" 

"Well.  ...  Ha!  ...  It  does  a  little,"  he 
said. 

I  will  concede  this  much :  That  in  view  of  the 
grea-eat  concussion  of  the  atmosphere  on  the 
Glorious  Fourth,  due  to  the  well-nigh  universal  ex 
plosion  of  firecrackers,  cap-pistols,  anvils,  and  all 
such,  it  is  not  antecedently  impossible  —  mark  my 
words  —  it  is  not  antecedently  impossible  that 
here  and  there  some  rain  might  be  joggled  loose 
from  whatever  it  is  stuck  to  up  there  in  the  sky. 

39 


OUR  TOWN 

And  if  the  picnic  were  announced  for  a  consider 
able  period  of  time  beforehand,  I  think  it  ex 
tremely  likely  that  it  would  rain.  If  it  was  got 
up  on  short  notice,  why,  the  weather  might  be 
taken  by  surprise  and  so  not  be  able  to  squeeze 
out  a  shower.  Still,  I  shouldn't  like  to  commit 
myself  either  way.  I'm  only  telling  you. 

I  suppose  that  away  back  in  the  early  days  they 
had  regular  celebrations  of  the  day  in  which  the 
school  children  took  part  and  sang  the  grand  old 
patriotic  airs,  of  which  we  know  the  tune  but  not 
the  words.  Indeed,  in  the  song-book  they  had  in 
the  schools  there  was  a  piece  that  seemed  to  have 
been  made  on  purpose  for  the  Fourth  of  July. 
The  Continental  Congress  wouldn't  let  a  living 
soul  know  what  was  going  on,  but  the  people 
felt  kind  of  interested  to  know  whether  or  not 
they  were  to  be  broken  off  from  the  old  country, 
it  being  a  hanging  matter,  and  so  the  Congress 
strained  a  point  and  agreed  to  have  the  bell  rung 
in  case  the  Declaration  was  passed.  Now,  away, 
'way  up  in  the  belfry  (and  if  you've  ever  been  in 
Independence  Hall  you  know  it  is  a  terribly  tall 

40 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

building  —  I  guess,  anyways,  three  stories  tall 
without  the  belfry)  there  was  the  sexton  and  — 
But  I'd  better  quote  a  verse  of  the  song: 

High  in  the  belfry  the  old  sexton  stands, 

Grasping  the  rope  in  his  thin,  bony  hands; 

Fixed  is  his  gaze,  as  by  some  magic  spell, 

Till  he  hears  the  welcome  tidings:  "  Ring,  ring  the  bell!  " 

CHORUS — "Ring     the     bell,     grandpa!     Ring!     Ring! 

Ring!" 

Yes,  yes,  the  good  news  is  now  on  the  wing. 
Yes,  yes,  they  come!     And  with  tidings  to  tell, 
Glorious  and  blessed  tidings!     "  Ring,  ring  the  bell!  " 

You  see,  it  was  his  little  grandson  that  told  him 
when  to  ring,  and  —  well,  it  was  a  nice  song, 
but  we  never  got  a  chance  to  sing  it  on  the  Fourth 
of  July,  because  school  was  let  out  then,  and  they 
never  had  regular  doings  on  that  day,  "  back 
home." 

Oh,  yes,  they  did  too.  Now  that  I  think  of  it, 
they  did  celebrate  the  Birthday  of  the  Nation  once 
by  a  regular  program.  They  had  a  sack  race,  and 
a  three-legged  race,  and  a  potato  race,  and  a  fat 
men's  race,  and  a  slow  race,  and  a  ladies'  race, 

41 


OUR  TOWN 

which  is  not  the  same  thing  as  a  slow  race.  And 
they  chased  the  greased  pig,  which  was  funny  be 
cause  the  pig  was  thoroughly  excited,  and  squealed 
hysterically,  and  tripped  people  up  and  played 
hob  generally.  And  they  had  climbing  the  greased 
pole,  which  wasn't  nearly  as  funny  as  you'd  think 
it  would  be.  And  the  band  played  and  played 
and  played  till,  when  it  was  all  over,  not  one  of 
them  except  the  two  men  on  the  battery  could 
have  whistled  if  it  was  to  save  his  life.  Hadn't 
any  lip.  Or  rather  they  had  too  much  lip,  for 
every  horn-player's  mouth  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
stepped  on  and  had  had  time  to  swell.  It  was  a 
grand  time,  and  the  Examiner  said  it  was  "  a  cele 
bration  worthy  of  the  festive  occasion." 

I  forgot  whether  they  had  strawberry  short 
cake  that  night  for  supper  or  not.  That's  kind 
of  stupefying,  you  know.  Anyhow  there  was 
something  we  could  eat  a  lot  of,  something 
that  made  a  snug  fit  for  our  appetites  after 
such  a  busy  day,  so  that  after  dark  began  to 
fall,  it  seemed  a  long,  long  time  since  we  had 
jumped  to  hear  the  window-rattling  "  Boong!  " 

42 


NV 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

of  the  first  gun  of  the  national  salute.  Pap  gave 
us  an  imitation  of  a  skyrocket  by  knocking  the 
dottle  from  his  pipe,  and  pretty  soon  away  off 
down-town  the  real  rockets  began  to  garter- 
snake  their  upward  way  through 
the  air,  opening  up  when  they  had 
climbed  their  height,  and  fling-  TOOK 

ing  colored  jewels  by  the  reckless          /'^ 
handful,  red,  and  green,  and  blue  • 

9 

and  white,   sometimes  broadcast,  S 

i  .  * 

and    sometimes    strung    upon    a  S 

thread,  as  it  were,  a  broken  neck-  S 

a 

lace  on  the  dusky  bosom  of  the  r» 

night.     For  a  while  we  wondered  5 

at  the  sheer  beauty  of  it  all,  and  ^ 
then  a  little  longer  we  amused  e 

ourselves   with   mimicking   them,  'S 

"  s-s-s-s  Tock!     Look  out  for  the  S 

stick!"     But  more  and  more  the  <S 

lovely  vision  melted  into  reverie.  " 

The  fire  balloons  drifted  farther  ^ 
and  farther,  low-hanging,  flicker-  S 
ing  stars  that  seemed  to  beckon  Q 

43 


OUR  TOWN 

our  ambition  toward  the  conquest  of  the  kingdom 
of  the  air.  .  .  .  We  sighed  .  .  .  we  longed  with 
longing,  somehow  gently  sad  until  —  until  — 

"Here,  mister!  Time  for  you  to  be  in  bed. 
Pillows  a-hollerin'  for  you." 

You  may  have  noticed  that  I  haven't  said  a 
word  about  the  public  reading  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence.  It  didn't  happen.  Never  in 
my  life  have  I  heard  that  read  aloud,  clear 
through.  When  that  immortal  statement  was 
first  put  forth,  nobody  dreamed  that  those  who 
worked  for  wages  had  any  rights.  In  those  cruel 
days,  ere  ever  compassion  had  been  born,  the  ne 
gro  slave  was  better  off  than  the  poor  wretch 
who  owned  no  property.  The  ballot  was  later 
given  to  him  grudgingly,  but  this  government  of 
ours  didn't  become  his  and  isn't  nowr.  It  isn't 
meant  to  be.  The  way  we  live,  the  average 
wages  of  the  men  and  women  who  take  the  raw 
earth  that  God  Almighty  gave  to  all  His  children 
for  a  heritage,  and  turn  it  into  what  we  eat  and 
wear  and  take  our  comfort  from,  the  average 

44 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 

wages  of  the  men  and  women  who  put  all  the  value 
into  anything  that  has  a  value,  is  about  $400  a 
year.  Some  get  more;  more  get  less.  Figure 
to  yourself  how  much  of  life  a  man  can  have  on 
$400  a  year;  how  much  of  liberty;  how  he  can 
pursue  happiness  after  his  board  and  keep  are  paid 
for.  In  the  census  year  of  1900  those  who  have 
only  themselves  to  sell  made  in  this  country  thir 
teen  billions  of  dollars'  worth  of  goods;  out  of 
that  thirteen  billion  dollars'  worth  they  got  two 
billion  dollars.  Who  got  the  other  eleven  billion 
dollars?  I'll  take  my  oath  it  wasn't  George  the 
Third.  Caesar  had  his  Brutus,  Charles  his  Crom 
well,  George  the  Third  his  Washington,  and 
—  if  that  be  treason,  make  the  most  of  it. 

It  didn't  do  to  read  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence.  It  made  folks  uneasy.  That  Smith 
who  had  been  rescued  from  the  obscurity  native  to 
Smiths  by  his  ferocious  soubriquet  of  "Hell-roar 
ing  Jake"  did  the  State  some  service  when  he  de 
scribed  the  Declaration  of  Independence  as  "  a 
damned  incendiary  document."  That's  just  what 
it  is.  Particularly  that  part  where  it  says  that 

45 


OUR  TOWN 

whenever  a  government  does  not  preserve  to  all 
the  people  their  rights  to  life  and  liberty  and  hap 
piness,  it  is  about  time  to  change  the  form  of  gov 
ernment  and  get  the  kind  that  will  preserve  them. 

I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  revive  the 
practise  of  reading  aloud  the  essay  of  that  red 
headed  fiddler  fellow  from  Virginia.  It  is  130 
years  old,  I  know,  but  it  is  so  far  from  being 
out  of  date  that  these  restless  days  of  ours  are 
the  days  when  it  is  most  likely  to  be  realized  in 
full. 

On  its  inspiration  we  did  the  business  for 
George  the  Third.  It  seems  to  me  it's  good  for 
one  more  whirl. 


46 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

WHENEVER  anybody  begins  to  com 
plain  about  "  nowadays,"  we  wink  at 
those  of  our  own  generation  and 
start  in  to  be  funny. 

"  Well,  now,  grandpap,"  we  ask,  with  a  ro 
guish  look  at  the  others,  "  do  you  really  think 
water  is  quite  as  wet  now  as  it  was  in  your  young 
days?" 

Because,  you  know,  if  anybody  says  that  this 
present  age  is  in  any  wise  inferior  to  any  age  that 
ever  went  before  —  that  it  is  not  superior  to  all 
the  ages  that  ever  went  before  lumped  in  one 
lump,  why,  that's  a  sure  sign  that  he  is  getting 
childish  and  failing  very  fast. 

And  yet  we  cannot  talk  long  with  those  who 
linger  with  us  for  more  than  threescore  years  and 
ten  ere  we  discover  that  something  they  had  is 
lacking  with  us,  something  of  which  our  children 
have  scarce  a  glimmer. 

49 


OUR  TOWN 

My  old  grandmother  said  to  me  one  day :  "  Ah, 
they  don't  have  the  good  times  in  religion  that 
they  used  to  have."  It's  a  good  joke,  that  about 
water  not  being  as  wet  as  it  once  was,  but  there 
are  times  when  it  just  doesn't  seem  to  come  in 
quite  right.  Somehow  it  made  me  sigh  as  I  be 
thought  me  of  the  protracted  meetings  I  had  been 
to  when  I  was  a  little  fellow  —  you  went  with  me, 
don't  you  recollect?  It  might  not  have  been  in 
the  same  meeting-house,  or  the  same  town,  or 
the  same  State,  or  the  same  year,  and  yet  it  was, 
too.  It  was  in  the  old  meeting-house  "  back 
home,"  and  the  time  was  just  the  same,  "  when 
we  were  little."  And  then  I  bethought  me  of  a 
modern  revival  meeting  I  had  attended  but  a 
short  time  before.  When  I  compared  the  two,  it 
seemed  to  me  I  understood  how  it  was  that 
the  world  to-day,  so  bright  and  active,  scuttling 
across  the  landscape  under  the  hissing  trolley-wire, 
and  glowing  with  the  golden  radiance  and  the 
violet  splendor  of  electric  lamps,  should  seem  to 
the  older  ones  a  dull,  gray  world,  no  longer  in 
teresting,  because  no  longer  interested  in  what  they 

50 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

deemed  a  far  more  vital  matter  than  heaping  to 
gether  that  which  perishes  with  the  using. 

The  protracted  meeting  I  attended  lately 
wasn't  in  a  meeting-house,  but  in  a  church,  a  splen 
did  structure,  through  whose  pictured  windows 
the  sunlight  shines  on  Sunday  mornings.  Cush 
ioned  pews  semicircle  on  a  slanting  floor.  Above 
the  preacher's  rostrum  is  a  gallery  with  a  valance, 
behind  which,  during  the  sermon,  hide  the  four 
hired  singers  whose  well-trained  voices  blend  so 
smoothly. 

The  modern  revival  that  I  attended  was  not 
held  in  this  spacious  auditorium,  but  in  a  smaller 
basement  room,  where,  I  think,  they  hold  the 
"  donkey  parties  "  and  the  "  socials."  Even  this 
room  was  plenty  large.  No  utter  stranger  came 
and  threw  his  arms  around  my  neck  and  asked 
me  to  go  up  to  the  mourners'  bench.  There  was 
no  mourners'  bench.  There  was  a  row  of  or 
chestra  chairs,  whereat  some  knelt.  Seemingly 
kneeling  is  not  clean  gone  out  of  fashion.  They 
kneeled,  backs  to  the  pulpit,  in  the  good  old  way. 
I  felt  a  little  more  at  home  when  I  saw  that.  But 


OUR  TOWN 

still  I  missed  the  "  workers "  with  the  roving, 
piercing  eyes,  which  fell  upon  the  conscious-smit 
ten  and  made  them  blanch  and  cower.  And  I 
missed  the  band  of  saints  and  new-rejoicing, 
thronged  about  the  altar,  singing,  praying,  encour 
aging,  pointing  the  way  to  those  who  still  sought 
assurance  of  their  sins  forgiven.  No  two  began 
to  lead  in  prayer  or  raise  the  tune  at  the  same 
time.  Nobody  did  anything  till  he  was  called 
upon.  Nobody  interjected  heartening  "  Amens  " 
or  "  Hallelujahs."  Nobody  sobbed  or  groaned 
aloud  in  the  extremity  of  his  grief;  nobody  shouted 
or  clapped  his  hands  in  his  joy  unspeakable  and 
full  of  glory.  It  was  very  calm,  very  sedate, 
almost  repressed.  It  was  still  even  in  the  back 
seats  by  the  door.  They  were  empty.  I  won 
dered  if  I  had  missed  my  directions.  The  only 
sign  outside  the  church  door  was  an  undertaker's 
sign.  It  seemed  ominous. 

What  I  missed  most  of  all  was  the  old-time 
hearty  singing.  Perhaps  that  was  mere  bawling, 
and  a  little  off  the  key.  No  matter.  It  was 
alive.  I  missed  the  old-time,  sturdy,  manly  tunes, 

52 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

that  came  out  of  a  live  man's  heart,  worthy  of 
the  noble  words  that  voiced  the  loftiest  aspiration 
of  the  human  soul,  seeking  after  God,  if  haply 
it  might  find  Him.  Instead  there  were  the  fee 
blest  possible,  soppy,  sentimental  little  verses,  set 
to  the  feeblest  little  sentimental  tunes  —  I  could 
make  better  out  of  putty  —  and  invariably  ac 
companied  on  the  piano.  On  the  piano!  It 
needed  only  that! 

"Ah!  they  don't  have  the  good  times  in  re 
ligion  that  they  used  to."  You  remember  those 
good  times,  don't  you?  In  the  old  meeting-house 
back  home,  when  we  were  little,  where  they  had 
a  reed-organ,  if  they  had  any;  where  they  had  a 
volunteer  choir,  if  they  had  any,  that  rose  to 
"  Cast  Up  the  Highway  "  on  festival  occasions, 
like  the  annual  conference,  where  Brother  John 
Snodgrass  led  the  singing  with  his  down,  left, 
right,  up,  and  his  f a-so-la-mi-f a ;  or,  maybe,  it 
was  Brother  Jimmy  Carhart,  who  despised  organs, 
and,  as  often  as  he  dared,  broke  out  with: 
"  Let's  have  some  singin',  now,  without  the  mu 
sic,"  meaning  for  Minnie  De  Wees  to  sit  still 

53 


OUR  TOWN 

there  on  the  organ  stool  and  look  as  if  she  could 
bite  nails;  in  the  old  meeting-house  back  home, 
where,  when  we  were  little,  everybody  turned 
around  and  kneeled  flat  on  the  bare  floor,  face  to 
the  back  of  the  bench,  to  pray,  and  followed  every 
word  of  the  petition  with  moving  lips,  groaning 
aloud  with  the  intensity  of  supplication,  or  cheer 
ing  the  one  who  "  led  "  with  loud-resounding  cries 
of:  "  Yes,  Lord!  "  "  Lord  grant!  "  "  A-a-a- 
a-men!"  "Hallelujah!"  "Glory  to  God!" 
"Praise  His  Name!";  where  nearly  everybody 
stayed  to  class-meeting,  which  to  Brother  F.  P. 
Morgan  was  the  best  thing  in  religion,  and  at 
which  old  Uncle  Billy  Nicholson  used  always  to 
begin  his  testimony  with:  "Feller  sinners  an' 
dyin  friends-ah.  It's  been  forty  years,  down  in 
Hanks's  schoolhouse,  sence  God,  for  Christ's  sake, 
spoke  peace  to  m'  soul,"  and  always  ended  with: 
"  Pray  for  me,  brothers  and  sisters,  that  I  may 
always  prove  faithful  and  finally  meet  you  all  in 
heaven,  where  we  shall  strike  glad  hands,  where 
parting  is  no  more." 

There  was  some  little  talk  then  about  a  man 
54 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

named  Darwin  that  had  some  crazy  notion  or 
other  about  monkeys  turning  into  men,  and  a  light 
headed  fellow  named  Tyndall,  or  some  such  name, 
that  had  the  audacity  to  propose  that  an  experi 
ment  be  tried  of  all  the  world  praying  for  the 
patients  in  one  ward  of  a  hospital  and  not  pray 
ing  for  the  patients  in  another  ward,  and  see  which 
set  of  sick  folks  got  well  first,  but  no  serious 
attention  was  paid  to  his  wanderings.  The 
Higher  Criticism  had  not  been  heard  of  then, 
and  if  at  the  annual  conference  some  one  preached 
a  sermon  mentioning  Renan  and  Strauss,  why, 
everybody  knew  how  godless  a  Frenchman  like 
Renan  must  be,  and  the  only  known  Strauss  was 
he  that  kept  the  One  Price  Clothing  Store. 

In  those  days  the  bending  heavens  came  down. 
God  walked  with  men.  He  was  very  near,  al 
most  like  one  of  the  neighbors.  He  was  a  kind 
and  loving  Father,  but  He  was  a  father  and 
spared  not  the  rod.  He  was  a  jealous  God,  and 
when  a  mother  idolized  her  child  too  much,  He 
took  it  from  her  to  show  her  where  to  set  her  af 
fections.  His  arm  was  not  shortened  in  those 

55 


OUR  TOWN 

days,  and  many  were  the  signal  instances  of  an 
swers  to  the  prayer  of  faith. 

In  those  days,  the  protracted  meeting  was  no 
timid,  half-way  thing.  Its  immediate  beginnings 
we  were  too  little  to  know,  you  and  I.  It  was 
not  —  and  then  suddenly  it  was.  There  was 
snow  on  the  ground,  we  remember,  but  whether 
the  protracted  meeting  began  with  the  Week  of 
Prayer,  or  whether  the  shortening  days  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it,  who  shall  say?  The  shorten 
ing  days  were  favorable,  for  then  all  the  crops 
were  in,  and  all  the  corn  was  husked,  and  to  feed 
the  stock  and  to  dawdle  over  some  few  chores,  to 
sleep  and  eat  was  all  there  was  to  do,  week  in, 
week  out.  The  lengthening  nights  were  favor 
able,  wherein  one  read  with  difficulty,  and  all  there 
was  to  read  was  "  Dr.  Chase's  Receipt  Book," 
and  the  "  Works  of  Flavius  Josephus,"  and  the 
"  Autobiography  of  Hester  Ann  Rogers,"  and 
Nelson's  "  Cause  and  Cure  of  Infidelity."  The 
soul  had  time  for  introspection.  Then  the  pro 
tracted  meeting  came  along.  Children  could  stay 
up  till  all  hours,  half  past  nine  and  even  ten  — 

56 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

yes,  even  later  still,  if  they  "  went  forward." 
There  was  meeting  six  nights  of  the  week  —  Sat 
urday  the  preacher  had  to  have  to  himself  so  as 
to  think  up  what  to  say  on  Sunday  morning. 
Seven  sermons  a  week  he  preached,  besides  "  ex 
horting." 

The  first  part  of  a  protracted  meeting  was  just 
like  any  other,  singing  and  praying  and  reading 
out  of  the  Bible  and  preaching.  They  had  the 
organ  for  the  hymns,  and  the  prayers  were  not 
especially  exciting,  but  the  sermons  were  a  little 
out  of  the  common.  Part  of  one  still  clings  to 
my  memory.  There  were  four  D's  in  it.  One 
was  Dreadful,  one  was  Dismal,  one  was  Doomed, 
and,  I  won't  be  sure,  but  I  think  the  fourth  D  was 
Devilish.  Nothing  about  birds  and  flowers  and 
sunset  glow.  But  thrilling  as  this  was,  we  waited 
with  eager  anticipation  for  what  was  to  come 
after,  when  the  organ  should  be  silent,  and  re 
straint  laid  off,  as  one  lays  off  a  garment.  The 
sermon  ended  with  fearful  warnings  to  hardened 
impenitents;  with  joyful  hopes  to  such  as  forsook 
their  evil  ways;  with  stirring  appeals  to  every 

57 


OUR  TOWN 

spark  of  one's  better  nature;  with  mention  of  the 
prayers  of  mothers  clinging  to  the  knees  of  God 
and  beseeching  Him  to  be  mindful  of  their  way 
ward  sons.  "Won't  you  come?  Won't  you 
come?  " 

And  then  broke  out  forthwith  that  hymn  which 
seems  to  me  instinct  with  all  the  heart's  devotion: 

"  I  am  coming,  Lord, 

Coming  now  to  thee ; 
Wash  me,  cleanse  me  in  the  blood, 
That  flowed  on  Calvary." 

Or  it  might  be  that  the  hymn  was  older  and 
went  back  to  the  heroic  age  of  American  history, 
to  the  days  of  coonskin  hats  and  apple-cuttings 
and  log  huts  and  "  fever  and  ager,"  to  days  when 
they  really  did  have  "  good  times  in  religion." 
It  might  have  been  a  tune  that  Peter  Cartwright 
sung,  or  Russell  Bigelow,  or  Elijah  Hedding,  or 
any  of  the  preachers  that  studied  at  "  Brush  Col 
lege  "  and  rode  Circuit.  Perhaps  it  was: 

"  Come,  humble  sinner,  in  whose  breast, 
A  thousand  thoughts  revolve, 

58 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

Come  with  your  guilt  and  fear  oppressed, 
And  make  this  last  resolve: — 

"  I'll  go  to  Jesus,  though  my  sin 

Like  mountains  round  me  close; 
I  know  His  courts;  I'll  enter  in 
Whatever  may  oppose." 

No  tinkling,  feeble,  soppy  sentimentality  about 
that. 

After  this  hymn,  the  true  meeting  begins.  All 
that  was  before  was  the  mere  preface,  endured 
for  the  sake  of  what  is  now  to  come.  Look  with 
all  your  eyes;  listen  with  all  your  ears.  As  the 
hymn  rises,  the  workers  disperse  themselves 
throughout  the  pongregation  and  toward  the  back 
of  the  house.  The  rearmost  bench  of  all  is  the 
seat  of  the  scornful,  the  boys  with  long  white 
crooked  hairs  sparse  upon  their  chins,  with  Adam's 
apples  that  bob  up  and  down  on  their  throats; 
boys  with  quacking  voices;  boys  that  can  chew  to 
bacco  without  breaking  out  all  over  in  a  cold  sweat; 
boys  that  have  graduated  beyond  "Gosh!"  and 
'  Jeemses  Rivers!"  and  are  now  clumsily  trying 
other  expletives,  not  without  a  vague  fear  of  being 

59 


OUR  TOWN 

struck  by  lightning.  They're  all  smart  boys. 
Nobody  could  possibly  know  as  much  as  they  do. 
You  couldn't  fool  them,  betch  life.  You  couldn't 
get  around  them  none,  and  tole  'em  up  to  no 
mourners'  bench.  They  know  too  much.  And 
just  to  show  the  real  manly  spirit  and  spunk  they 
have,  all  the  time  the  preacher  is  telling  about 
this  place  of  the  four  D's,  they  are  scuffling  with 
each  other  in  their  hobbledehoy  way,  pinching, 
tickling,  and  cackling  with  laughter.  Afraid? 
No,  sirree,  Bob !  Neither  is  the  man  afraid  that 
whistles  going  through  the  graveyard  after  dark. 
But  just  the  same  they  sit  close  together,  for 
there  is  something,  they  don't  know  what,  that 
draws  them  to  these  meetings,  something  that 
fascinates,  something  they  are  afeared  of  because 
it  is  not  of  earth.  If  they  were  separated  one 
from  the  other,  they  know  that  it  would  get  them. 
Wait  but  a  little  and  you  shall  see  it.  What? 
Can  it  be  seen?  Can  one  see  the  wind  that  shakes 
the  wheat  field? 

"  Sing  some  more !  "  commands  Sister  Becken- 
baugh,  from  the  pew-end  of  the  seat  of  the  scorn- 

60 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

ful,  where  she  is  arguing  with  that  wild  and 
reckless  boy  of  hers.  He  looks  down  sheepishly, 
steals  a  glance  at  the  others,  a  grin  ready  on  his 
face,  should  he  find  one  on  theirs.  They  are 
quite  grave,  for  in  our  day  it  didn't  do  to  be  dis 
respectful  to  other  boys'  mas.  He  listens  to  her. 
He  doesn't  "  sass,"  or  call  her  an  old  fool  here, 
as  he  does  at  home.  He  just  holds  out  stub 
bornly,  sure  of  applause  when  she  has  given  up 
and  gone  away. 

"Sing  some  more!"  (Sister  Beckenbaugh  is 
of  those  who  hold  that  music  is  meant  only  to  be 
a  background  for  conversation.) 

She  argues,  she  pleads,  she  threatens  with  the 
four  D's.  All  over  the  meeting-house  this  is  go 
ing  on.  You  stretch  your  neck  this  way  and  that 
to  see  what's  happening,  and  all  of  a  sudden  you 
jump  as  if  you  were  shot  to  find  somebody's  hand 
upon  your  shoulder. 

"  Brother,  are  you  a  Christian?  " 
"  Well,  no,  sir,  not  exactly." 
"  Don't  you  think  you'd  ought  to  be?" 
You     snicker    foolishly:     "  Th-n-nnnn !  "     and 
61 


OUR  TOWN 

look  down.     The  sweat  comes  on  the  back  of 
your  neck. 

"  You  mean  to  be  one  some  day,  don't  you?  " 

"  Well,  yes.     Some  day.     Not  now." 

"Why  not  now?" 

He  looks  you  in  the  eye.  "  Why  not  now?  " 
Something  within  you,  not  yourself,  that  makes 
for  righteousness,  echoes  the  question:  ;c  Why 
not  now?  "  Are  the  things  whereof  your  con 
science  doth  accuse  you  —  are  your  darling  sins  so 
great  a  comfort  to  you  that  you  must  cling  to  them 
a  little  longer?  The  man  looks  at  you  with 
earnest  eyes.  You  cannot  stand  his  steady  gaze. 
You  hang  your  head  and  fiddle  with  the  pew-back. 

;<  Why  not  now?  What  do  you  gain  by  wait- 
ing?" 

"  Well,  I  won't  go  now.  Not  to-night,"  and 
you  smile  a  feeble,  foolish  smile.  Inside  of  you 
something  is  saying:  'Yes.  Go  on.  Go  on. 
Now's  the  time."  But  you  hold  back.  What 
holds  you  back?  I  wonder. 

'  To-morrow  may  be  too  late.  There  may  be 
no  to-morrow.  God  may  require  your  soul  of 

62 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

you  this  very  night.  How  will  it  be  with  you  if 
you  reject  Him?  " 

Ah!  He  has  missed  his  opportunity.  If  he 
had  just  kept  on  with  "Why  not  now?"  you 
would  have  yielded,  but  that  you  should  die  now, 
or  at  any  other  time,  is  too  absurd.  "  A  thou 
sand  shall  fall  at  thy  side,  and  ten  thousand  at  thy 
right  hand;  but  it  shall  not  come  nigh  thee." 

"  Think  about  this,  my  brother,"  he  says,  and 
lays  his  hand  again  upon  you.  His  eyes  leave 
you  and  wander  to  another,  though  he  still  talks 
to  you.  (Will  he  never  have  done?)  At  last 
he  goes,  and  you  draw  a  long  breath,  and  look 
around  with  a  faint  smile  for  some  one's  approval 
of  your  manly  course.  If  there  is  a  Something 
not  of  earth  that  draws  one  to  a  better  life,  what 
is  this  other  Something,  also  not  of  earth,  that 
holds  one  back?  Who  of  us  but  really  wants  to 
be  a  better  man  or  woman?  What  is  it,  then, 
that  makes  us  mulishly  balk  against  the  gracious 
leading?  It  is  a  mystery  to  us  now;  it  was  no 
mystery  to  us  then.  We  knew  right  well  it  was 
the  Old  Boy  in  us,  as  big  as  an  alligator. 

63 


OUR  TOWN 

The  singing  is  ended.  From  the  altar  comes 
the  command:  "  Brother  Snyder,  lead  us  in 
prayer." 

Brother  Snyder  is  gifted  that  way.  He  begins 
slowly  and  with  impressive  dignity:  "High! 
Holy!  Almighty!  Everlasting  God!  we  come 
before  Thee  this  evening,"  etc.  Then,  as  the 
formal  address  and  introduction  conclude,  he  be 
comes  more  eloquent,  more  impassioned.  His 
voice  falls  into  the  old-time  swing,  almost  a  chant, 
and  the  vocal  recoil  after  each  period  or  phrase 
becomes  more  audible:  '  They's  sinners  here  to- 
night-ah,"  he  cantillates,  "  that's  a-haltin'  betwix' 
two  opinions-ah.  They's  sinners  here  to-night-ah 
that's  a-swingin'  to  and  fro-ah,  like  a  do-o-o-o-or 
on  its  hinges-ah.  WAKE  'EM  UP-ah  I  WAKE 
'EM  UP,  O  L-o-o-rd-ah!" 

"Amen,  a-a-a-amen!"  cries  the  enthusiastic 
and  tumultuous  chorus. 

"  Let  'em  feel,  O  Lord-ah,  the  awful  peril  they 
are  in-ah,  like  men  a-walkin'  in  a  fog-ah  on  the 
brink  of  a  terrible  clift-ah.  WAKE  UP  these 
sinners-ah  and  show  'em,  O  Lord-ah,  where  they 

64 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

are  at-ah!  Hang  'em  over  HELL  FIRE-ah,  for 
a  spell-ah.  Give  'em  a  good  strong  whiff  o'  brim- 
stone-ah !  Let  'em  have  no  peace  from  this  time 
forth  untell  they  find  it  in  Thee-ah.  Let  not  the 
prayers  of  godly  fathers,  the  tears  and  groans  of 
praying  mothers-ah,  go  unanswered  any  longer. 
Strike  —  deep  —  conviction  into  their  hearts,  O 
Lord-ah!" 

With  every  petition  rises  a  louder  and  more 
tumultuous  chorus  of  cheering  and  encouraging 
approbation  until  the  prayer  is  ended.  While 
they  still  kneel,  some  one  starts  up  a  hymn.  It 
may  be  that  touching  one  of  John  Wesley's: 

"  Take  my  poor  heart  and  let  it  be 
Forever  closed  to  all  but  thee, 
Seal  thou  my  breast  and  let  me  wear 
That  pledge  of  love  forever  there." 

Again  they  pray,  and  then  they  rise  and  sing. 
The  emotions,  the  sympathies  are  stirred  to  their 
profoundest  depths  by  this  thrilling  oratory,  by 
the  regular,  recurring  accent  of  the  hymn,  by  some 
thing  else  more  mysterious,  more  profound,  some 
thing  that  thrills  by  anticipation.  Only  a  few  are 

65 


OUR  TOWN 

at  the  altar  now,  but  there  is  something  in  the  air, 
as  it  were  the  Spirit  of  God  brooding  over  the 
face  of  the  waters.  The  workers  redouble  their 
appeals.  The  hymns  beat  more  lustily.  Two  or 
three  are  praying  at  once.  No  matter  for  that. 
It's  coming.  It's  coming.  Pretty  soon  you  will 
see  them  flock  as  doves  to  their  windows. 

"  I  am  coming,  Lord, 

Coming  now  to  thee. 
Wash  me,  cleanse  me  in  the  blood 
That  flowed  on  Calvary. 

"  Nay,  but  I  yield,  I  yield, 

I  can  hold  out  no  more, 

I  sink  by  dying  love  compelled 

And  own  thee  conqueror. 

"  I  am  coming,  Lord  — — " 


"  Bless  God,  there's  one  coming!     Bless  God! 
Hallelujah  to  the  Lamb!  " 

"  That  flowed  on  Calvary." 

"  Isn't  there  another?     Isn't  there  another  that 
will  declare:     'I  care  not  for  what  others  may 

66 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

do  or  say,  but  as  for  me  and  my  house,  we  will 
serve    the    Lord?'     Isn't   there    another?     God 
bless  you,  my  brother!  " 
And  as  the  hymn  repeats : 

"  I  am  coming,  Lord," 

the  eager  eyes  of  the  watchers  note  a  young  man 
trembling,  moving  uneasily  where  he  stands,  look 
ing  down,  passing  a  shaking  hand  over  his  face. 
He  starts  forward,  but  stops.  You  can  see  him 
swallow  hard.  Then,  suddenly  breaking  as  if  by 
force  from  some  unseen  grip,  he  almost  runs  for 
ward  to  the  mourners'  bench,  stumbling,  blinded 
by  his  tears,  sobbing,  as  he  casts  himself  down: 
"  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner!  " 

And  there's  another.  And  there's  another. 
And  yonder's  another.  The  hymn  swells  with 
enthusiasm,  almost  with  holy  laughter.  Why  are 
you  not  among  those?  A  subtle  uneasiness  over 
spreads  you.  Not  to-night.  Some  other  time. 
(The  Old  Boy  snickers  behind  his  hand.) 
There's  another  going  forward.  Two  more. 

Away  with  modern  tunes.     Let's  get  back  to 

67 


OUR  TOWN 

the  ones  they  used  to  have  when  they  had  good 
times  in  religion.     Brother  Miller  starts  up: 

"  Sing  on,  pray  on,  we're  a-gainin'  ground, 

Glory,  hallelujah! 

The  power  of  the  Lord  is  a-comin'  down, 
Glory,  hallelujah !  " 

"That's  it!  that's  it!  Sing  it  again.  Isn't 
there  one  more?  We  are  going  to  pray  pretty 
soon  now  again.  We  are  going  to  pray  for  these 
penitent  souls,  that  they  may  know  that  their  sins, 
which  were  many,  are  all  forgiven.  Who  else 
will  come?  Ah,  here  is  one  for  whom  many  have 
been  praying.  Right  here,  kneel  right  down 
here."  Ah,  this  is  good  times  in  religion! 

"  Glory  to  the  Lamb ! 
Glory  to  the  Lamb! 
Glory  to  the  Lamb! 
The  world  is  overcome, 
Glory  to  the  Lamb!  " 

And  when  you  hear  that  tune,  know  that,  then 
and  there,  there  are  good  times  in  religion,  and 
that  the  mysterious  influence  is  abroad.  Nobody 

68 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

ever  made  that  tune.  Nobody  composed  that  on 
any  parlor  organ.  It  came.  Weird,  mysterious, 
almost  formless,  unlike  any  other  earthly  tune, 
something  of  that  which  lies  Behind  the  Veil  is 
in  it.  The  ecstasy  of  the  Beatific  Vision  pervades 
it. 

"  And  I  shall  overcome, 
Glory  to  the  Lamb! 
Glory  to  the  Lamb!  " 

How  many  saintly  souls,  now  gone  to  glory, 
have  hymned  that  aspiration!  How  many  re 
deemed  and  blood-washed!  It  is  "some  sweet 
fragment  of  the  songs  above."  It  is  some  broken 
echo  of  the  melody  chanted  by  the  white-robed 
multitude  around  the  crystal  sea,  the  multitude 
which  no  man  can  number,  harping  ceaselessly  on 
golden  harps. 

Tumult  now  follows;  one  leading  in  prayer, 
as  if  to  take  the  kingdom  of  heaven  by  storm, 
two  or  three  at  once  following  him  in  just  as 
fervent  supplication,  while  the  faithful  pray  al 
most  as  loudly  to  themselves,  or  groan  in  earnest 
ness,  or  shout  enthusiastic  approval  of  petitions, 

69 


OUR  TOWN 

amid  the  confused  murmur  of  the  workers  about 
them,  teaching  the  mourners  to  pray,  pointing  them 
to  that  Cross  whereon  He  suffered  once  for  all, 
and  for  all  men.  Let  us  a  little  withdraw 
ourselves  and  ask:  What  mean  ye  by  this 
service? 

For  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  this  young  man, 
now  agonizing  at  the  mourners'  bench,  feels  to 
the  full  how  he  has  slighted  God,  how  often  he 
has  rejected  tendered  mercy.  Perhaps  it  is  too 
late  now.  There  is  a  sin  for  which  there  is  no 
pardon,  let  him  cry  never  so  loudly  and  weep 
never  so  bitterly.  What  this  sin  may  be  is  merci 
fully  hidden  from  us,  but  it  is  surmised  it  is  re 
sisting  the  influences  of  the  Spirit.  He  has  done 
that  how  often !  Is  that  Dark,  that  Dismal,  that 
Doomed,  and  Devilish  Pit  to  be  his  habitation  for 
all  eternity,  while  overhead  the  company  of  the 
blessed  chant  everlastingly,  all  forgetful  of  his 
misery?  Is  he  never  to  see  again  the  sweet  face 
of  that  praying  mother  of  his,  whose  last  whis 
pered  word  to  him  was:  "  Meet  me  .  .  ."  and 
who  then,  when  she  could  not  finish  out  the  sen- 

70 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

tence,  looked  upward  to  tell  him  where?     Lost! 
Lost!     Forever  lost! 

Some  one  kneels  beside  him  and  whispers  to 
him  the  comfortable  words:  "  God  so  loved  the 
world,  that  he  gave  his  only  begotten  Son, 
that  whosoever  —  whosoever  believeth  in  Him 
should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting 
life."  Whosoever  .  .  .  Whosoever?  Why  .  .  . 
\Vhy —  .  .  .  Why,  that's  me!  Can  it  be  that 
there  is  pardon  for  such  a  guilty  wretch  as  I  am? 
Hark!  They  are  singing: 

"  Depth  of  mercy!     Can  there  be 
Mercy  still  reserved  for  me? 
Can  my  God  His  wrath  forbear  — 
Me,  the  chief  of  sinners,  spare? 
God  is  love,  I  know,  I  feel, 
Jesus  weeps,  and  loves  me  still, 
Jesus  weeps,  He  weeps,  and  loves  me  still." 

And  all  of  a  sudden  there  comes  that  joy  that 
cannot  be  told  of  in  words.  Sorrow  and  heavi 
ness  flee  away.  The  burden  falls  off.  That 
Dark,  that  Dismal  Place  no  longer  menaces. 
Saved!  Saved  from  a  never-ending  Hell!  Oh, 


OUR  TOWN 

glory  to  the  kind,  forgiving  God !  Glory  I  You 
saw  this  young  man  a  little  while  ago,  trembling, 
hesitating,  torn  by  conflicting  fears.  You  saw 
him  agonizing  on  his  knees.  Look  at  him  now. 
He  starts  up,  his  hands  clenched,  his  eyes  closed, 
a  rapt  expression  on  his  face  that  shines  as  if  by 
inward  light.  "Glory!"  he  shouts,  "Glory!" 
louder  still,  my  brother,  "GLORY!"  Every 
muscle  quivers  with  tension.  He  cannot  shout 
louder,  but  joy  must  be  expressed  in  some  way. 
He  beats  his  palms  together  with  the  intensity 
of  rapture.  The  others  embrace  him.  Oh,  the 
happiness  of  that  moment!  He  bursts  into  the 
holy  laugh.  Others  get  their  souls  on  fire. 
Others  "  come  through  "  and  join  him  in  rejoic 
ing  in  a  new-found  Saviour.  Those  who  are  al 
ready  saved  feel  their  hearts  warm,  and  they,  too, 
get  to  shouting  and  "  striking  glad  hands,"  and, 
casting  off  the  fear  of  what  the  world  may  say  or 
think,  "  have  good  times  in  religion." 

Sometimes  they  swooned  away  in  ecstasy.  I 
saw  a  girl  lie  thus  for  hours  together,  supine,  her 
arms  wide-spread.  Her  face  was  flushed  and 

72 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

she  breathed  hard.  A  few  stood  about  her,  but 
they  did  nothing  to  revive  her.  It  was  all  right. 
It  occasioned  no  surprise,  for  in  the  earlier  days 
there  were  such  blessed  trances  in  which  favored 
ones  had  seen  what  lies  Behind  the  Veil;  had 
shuddered  at  the  Dismal,  Doomed,  Dreadful, 
and  Devilish  Pit;  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  daz 
zling  glories  and  heard  "  sweet  fragments  of  the 
songs  above  "  ere  the  pearly  gates  swung  shut 
again,  and  they  descended  all  unwillingly  to  the 
dull  earth  once  more,  but  knowing  thereafter  what 
joys  awaited  there,  what  radiancy  of  glory,  what 
bliss  beyond  compare.  I  was  eager  to  know  if  to 
this  young  woman  was  vouchsafed  any  such  boon, 
but  I  could  get  no  word  whatever.  It  seems  to 
me  now  that  they  put  me  off.  Boys  were  used  to 
that  in  those  days. 

In  such  exuberance  of  enthusiasm,  when,  as  it 
were,  the  soul  runs  wild  and  naked  in  its  innocency, 
so  many  things  occur  to  twitch  the  corners  of  the 
mouth,  that  the  "  holy  laugh  "  would  have  had  to 
be  invented  if  it  did  not  exist. 

They  tell  the  story  of  a  man  who  went  up  for- 
73 


OUR  TOWN 

ward  night  after  night,  night  after  night  through 
all  the  meetings.  The  last  night  found  him  still 
seeking.  No  one  could  make  much  out  of  him, 
but  at  this  last  meeting  some  one  put  his  arms 
about  him  and  pityingly  said:  "  What's  the  mat 
ter,  my  dear  brother?  Why  is  it  you  can't  come 
through?  " 

The  consciousness  that  the  harvest  was  passed 
and  the  summer  ended,  the  kindly  sympathy  — 
something,  anyway  —  broke  the  man's  heart. 
"  Oh,  I'm  converted  all  right,  all  right, 
I  guess,"  he  sniffled,  and  then  he  broke  into  a  reg 
ular,  square-mouthed  bawling  spell.  "  Bub-but 
.  .  .  ah-hoo-hoo-hoooooo !  I  jist  caint  make  a 
prayer  fit  fer  a  daw-aw-awg!  " 

It  is  of  record  that  among  the  Puritans  of  old 
New  England  were  very  wonderful  and  gracious 
conversions  at  six  years,  at  four  years,  and  even  at 
two  years  and  seven  months.  Nevertheless  I 
seem  to  remember  that  there  was  some  grumbling 
when  Sister  Moots  and  Sister  Hoover  made  such 
a  strenuous  campaign  among  the  little  folks  In 
Sunday-school.  Sister  Boggs,  who  taught  the  in- 

74 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

fant  class,  was  quite  outspoken  against  such  do 
ings. 

"  What  do  them  little  things  know  about  sins 
forgive,  and  all  such  truck  as  that?  "  she  angrily 
demanded.  (Righteous  anger,  understand.) 
"  Don't  it  say  that  their  angels  do  always  behold 
the  face  of  the  Father?  Well,  then.  And  what 
if  they  are  naughty?  Bless  their  bones,  I 
wouldn't  give  two  pins  for  a  young  one  that 
didn't  tear  up  Jack  once  in  a  while.  No,  I 
wouldn't.  Why,  lawsadaisy!  What  have  they 
got  to  repent  of?  Trackin'  in  mud  an'  chasin' 
the  chickens  and  such  capers.  Worst  they  ever 
did  ud  be  all  right  if  you'd  turn  'em  up  and  smack 
'em,  and  kind  o'  loosen  their  hides  so's  they'd 
grow  good.  Well,  s'posin'.  S'posin'  they  was 
to  die  in  their  sins.  What  of  it?  They'd  go  to 
heaven,  right  spang!  Oh,  hush  up  1  I  don't 
want  to  hear  any  more  talk  about  it." 

But  Sister  Moots  and  Sister  Hoover  persevered, 
and  I'll  never  be  able  to  tell  you  just  how  a  whole 
pewful  of  these  young  seekers  looked  one  time 
when  Brother  Snyder  got  good  and  going  about 

75 


OUR  TOWN 

the  "sinners  here  to-night-ah,  a-haltin'  betwix' 
two  opinions-ah,  and  a-swingin'  to  an'  fro-ah,  like 
a  do-o-o-o-or  on  its  hinges-ah."  They  were  weep 
ing  and  wailing  for  their  wicked  sins,  for  they  were 
in  danger  of  hell-fire,  every  one  of  them  having 
many  times  said  to  his  brother:  "  Thou  fool!  " 
Each  had  a  wet  and  wadded  handkerchief  and 
was  scrubbing  away  industriously.  They  heard, 
without  heeding,  Brother  Snyder's  long-drawn  can- 
tillation,  but  when  he  came  to :  "  WAKE  'EM 
UP-ah!  Hang  these  sinners  over  HELL-FIRE 
a  spell-ah !  Give  'em  a  good  strong  WHIFF 
of  brimstone-ah !  "  if  you  could  have  seen  that 
row  of  round  and  red-rimmed  eyes  pop  up  from 
behind  the  pew-back  with  such  a  "  What's-up- 
now?  "  expression,  you  would  have  felt  the  urgent 
need  of  the  holy  laugh  yourself. 

Just  before  the  close  of  the  meeting  the  mourn 
ers  sit  up,  and  they  and  others  give  in  their  "  ex 
perience."  The  older  ones  know  what  to  say 
from  having  been  often  at  love-feast  and  prayer- 
meeting  when  "  the  meeting  is  now  in  your 
hands."  But,  it  being  their  first  essay  as  public 

76 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

speakers  with  the  little  folks,  they  sit  and  study, 
furtively  watching  their  turn  draw  fearfully  nearer 
and  nearer.  Still  sobbing  and  holding  their  hand 
kerchiefs  before  their  eyes,  they  hunch  their  neigh 
bor  with:  "Hay!  How's  this?  'I  am  trying 
to  serve  the  Lord.'  'LI  that  do,  d'ye  reckon?" 
The  first  quarterly  meeting  after  the  revival, 
who  can  forget  it?  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
the  boy  stays  through  the  entire  service.  The 
solemn  words  are  spoken.  The  strange  and  sub 
tle  fragrance  of  the  sacramental  wine  distils  upon 
the  quiet  air.  The  railful  waits  the  words  of 
dismissal,  the  short  address  concluding  with  these 
words:  "  Rise,  brethren.  Go  in  peace,  and  live 
for  Him  who  died  for  you."  As  another  railful 
presses  forward  is  sung  a  verse  of  "  There  is  a 
Fountain  Filled  with  Blood  "  to  that  sweet  tune 
built  on  the  five-toned  scale  that  touches  the  heart 
so  with  its  repetition  of  the  words: 

"  And  there  may  I,  though  vile  as  he, 
Lose  all  my  guilty  stains." 

It  is  solemn,  sacramental,  ritualistic,  definitely  pre- 
77 


OUR  TOWN 

scribed;  it  is  the  antipodes  of  the  free,  untram- 
meled  expression  of  the  emotions;  it  is  the  priestly 
contrasted  with  the  prophetic.  , 

But  in  the  love-feast  in  the  afternoon,  after  the 
prefatory  little  blocks  of  bread  and  sups  of  water, 
the  prophetic  once  more  resumes  its  sway.  It  is 
the  sacrament  of  the  lay  people.  They  rise  to 
tell  of  what  the  Lord  has  done  for  them :  here  the 
young  soldier  just  admitted  on  probation,  at  the 
end  of  whose  words,  spoken  with  quivering  chin, 
is  sung:  "  I've  'listed  in  the  holy  war,"  and 
yonder  the  old  veteran,  soon  to  enter  into  his 
eternal  possessions,  for  whom  is  sung: 

"  My  days  are  gliding  swiftly  by, 

And  I,  a  pilgrim  stranger, 
Would  not  detain  them  as  they  fly, 

Those  hours  of  toil  and  danger. 
For  oh,  we  stand  on  Jordan's  strand, 

Our  friends  are  passing  over, 
And  just  before  the  shining  shore 

We  may  almost  discover." 

Ah,  they  had  good  times  in  religion  in  those 
days,  so  it  seemed  to  us.     But  in  the  Amen  Corner 

78 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

there  were  those  who  shook  their  heads  and 
sighed,  recalling  what  it  was  like  in  their  day. 
When  their  folks  moved  here  from  Clark 
County,  one  time  Pap  was  gone  to  the  mill  and 
wouldn't  be  back  for  three  days,  it  was  such  a  far 
ways  in  those  days,  and  Mother  was  left  alone 
with  two  little  ones,  and  she  could  hear  the  wolves 
"  hollering "  in  the  woods  over  by  where  Mc- 
Kinnon's  is  now,  and  there  was  just  a  quilt  hung 
up  for  a  door  to  the  cabin.  When  they  had  love- 
feast  then  a  woman  couldn't  get  into  it  if  she  had 
a  flower  or  a  ribbon  in  her  bonnet,  and  men  didn't 
find  peace  to  their  souls  till  they  had  ripped  from 
their  shirt-bosoms  the  ruffles  they  were  so  proud  of. 
No  one  then  dreamed  of  asking  if  one  might  not 
take  a  hand  at  cards,  or  read  a  novel,  go  to  a 
dance  or  to  the  playhouse,  and  still  be  a  "  pro 
fessor."  Then  they  generally  fasted  once  a  week 
and  always  fasted  the  Friday  before  quarterly 
meeting.  They  had  good  times  in  religion  then, 
but  even  that  was  nothing  to  what  they  had  heard 
Pap  and  Mother  tell  about  in  the  days  when 
Daniel  Boone  and  Lewis  Wetzel  and  Captain 

79 


OUR  TOWN 

Crawford  and  Simon  Kenton  and  sinister  Simon 
Girty,  the  renegade,  were  not  mere  names  of 
demigods,  but  neighbors  and  acquaintances.  In 
that  heroic  age,  what  was  in  our  degenerate  days 
a  midwinter  luxury,  was  common  fare. 

At  every  preaching  then  "  the  slain  of  the  Lord  " 
fell  in  windrows  to  the  ground,  struck  down  by 
mighty  power.  Then  men,  under  conviction, 
wandered  in  solitary  places,  moaning  and  crying, 
"Lost!  Lost!  Forever  lost!"  Then  the 
shouts  of  the  redeemed  and  blood-washed  could 
be  heard  for  miles  as  they  went  spinning  round  the 
camp-ground  like  a  top.  Mysterious  and  inex 
plicable  "  exercises  "  attended  the  preaching  of 
the  Word.  Saplings  had  to  be  cut  off  at  the  right 
height  to  give  those  affected  by  the  "  jerks  "  some 
thing  to  hold  on  by  while,  from  the  waist  upward, 
they  flung  themselves  back  and  forth  with  such 
uncontrollable  violence  that  the  women's  bonnets 
and  combs  flew  every  which  way,  and  their  long, 
loosened  locks  cracked  like  a  carter's  whip. 
Around  these  saplings  the  ground  was  all  torn 
up  as  if  it  had  been  a  hitching-post  in  fly-time. 

80 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

Men  taken  with  the  "  barking  exercise  "  would 
run  on  all  fours,  yelping  and  howling,  and  crying 
that  they  had  the  devil  "  treed."  The  old  men 
dreamed  dreams  and  the  young  men  saw  visions; 
sons  and  daughters  prophesied,  and  children  seven 
and  eight  years  old  preached  to  sinners  and  con 
verted  many,  exhorting  until  they  collapsed  from 
sheer  fatigue.  The  end  of  the  world  was  thought 
to  be  at  hand,  for  these  were  the  signs  of  the  last 
days. 

And  in  truth  the  end  of  the  world  they  knew 
was  at  hand,  and  these  were  the  last  days  of  their 
age.  The  new  age  was  struggling  to  be  born,  a 
new  age  grander  far  than  any  that  had  ever  been 
before  —  than  all  that  had  ever  been  before.  A 
new  nation  founded,  not  upon  authority,  but  upon 
the  Equal  Rights  of  Man,  had  come  into  being 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  On  the  farther  side 
what  change  was  being  wrought  in  their  day  we 
may  know  from  the  fact  that  the  flag  of  this  Amer 
ican  nation  is  now  the  oldest  one  that  floats. 

A  waft  of  air  stirs  just  before  the  dawn  of  day. 
It  was  so  then.  Men  drew  in  their  breath  and 


OUR  TOWN 

their  bosoms  swelled  with  lofty  purpose  to  do 
something  for  their  fellows,  something  to  hasten 
on  the  dawning  of  the  day.  A  thousand  instances 
show  this,  none  more  heart-touching  than  that  of 
Johnny  "  Appleseed."  It  was  not  much  that  he 
could  do  to  help  along,  but  at  least  he  could 
bring  apple  seeds  from  far  across  the  mountains 
and  sow  them  in  the  dark  forests  of  Ohio.  He 
could  lend,  leaf  by  leaf,  his  books  to  the  soul- 
hungry  backwoodsmen.  The  heavens  be  his  bed 
for  that ! 

Never  before  did  such  a  Macedonian  cry  go  up 
as  from  these  pioneers.  They  had  battled  with 
appalling  hardships  to  win  them  homes  in  the  far 
wilderness.  There  grew  up  fathers  of  families 
who  had  never  heard  a  sermon  or  a  prayer  of 
fered  to  God.  To  them  came  the  circuit-riders,  not 
aged  men,  as  we  are  wont  to  picture  them,  but 
almost  beardless  youths,  filled  with  a  youth's  god 
like  fervency  of  spirit.  Within  them  the  thirst 
for  souls  raged  like  a  fever.  Thousands  of  miles 
they  rode  each  year,  sleeping  where  night  over 
took  them,  sometimes  in  the  lone  woods,  sometimes 

82 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

in  vermin-ridden  cabins,  preaching  four  times  each 
day,  and  oftener  if  they  could.  Their  nominal 
stipend  was  $64  a  year  and  find  themselves;  their 
real  income  never  touched  that  figure.  It  was 
for  no  earthly  recompense  they  wrought,  but  for 
an  amaranthine  crown.  What  pay  could  tempt 
a  fever-stricken  man  to  lie  for  weeks  upon  three 
chairs  in  a  crowded  cabin?  That  was  a  common 
experience  with  them.  Starved  out  sometimes, 
they  "  located  "  till  they  could  get  new  clothing 
and  a  fresh  horse,  and  then  —  Once  more  into 
the  field!  Most  of  them  died  young,  many  of 
them  among  strangers;  and  not  for  years  after 
ward  did  their  relatives  hear  how,  when  they  were 
too  weak  even  to  sit  up  in  bed,  they  yet  gathered 
the  people  round  them  and  told  them  of  the  Cross 
and  Him  that  hung  thereon.  With  them  it  was 
no  mere  pious  aspiration,  but  their  heart's  desire 
and  prayer  to  God : 

"  Happy  if  with  my  latest  breath 

I  may  but  gasp  his  name ; 
Preach  Him  to  all,  and  cry  in  death: 
'Behold!     Behold  the  Lamb!'" 

83 


OUR  TOWN 

Never  before  was  there  such  a  spreading  of  the 
Gospel.  The  aureoled  saints  that  converted 
Europe  were  but  a  feeble  folk  beside  them, 
slow-motioned,  temporizing.  They  were  un 
learned  men,  these  circuit-riders.  As  one  of 
them  has  said,  they  "  murdered  the  king's  Eng 
lish  at  every  lick,"  but  they  had  power  given  unto 
them  to  move  the  hearts  of  men,  such  power  as 
we  can  only  estimate  by  first  reading  the  accounts 
of  camp-meetings  in  the  "  airly  days,"  and  then 
going  to  a  modern  one,  thinly  attended  and  only 
by  the  very  old,  at  that,  and  deadly  with  a  dulness 
that  no  brass  quartet,  or  hired  singers  of  religious 
ballads,  or  frequent  jingling  of  tawdry  "  gospel 
hymns  "  can  lighten  in  the  least  degree.  In  the 
old  days  whole  settlements  were  utterly  deserted 
to  attend  camp-meeting,  and  if  the  rowdies  came 
and  brought  their  whisky-bottles  and  made  dis 
turbances,  that  also  was  good  times  in  religion. 
A  mighty  power  could  smite  them  senseless  to  the 
ground,  if  not  the  preacher's  fist  on  "  the  burr  of 
the  ear,"  as  Peter  Cartwright  calls  it.  (Says  he: 
"  I  did  not  permit  myself  to  believe  that  any  man 

84 


THE  OLD-TIME  REVIVAL 

could  whip  me  till  it  was  tried.")  But  the  mighty 
power  could  always  be  depended  on,  and  if  "  the 
slain  of  the  Lord  "  did  not  keel  over  by  the  hun 
dred  under  his  preaching,  the  circuit-rider  exam 
ined  his  heart  to  find  out  why. 

It  needs  must  be  that  the  age  thus  ushered  in 
should  be  the  grandest  that  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  These  were  the  Voices  of  the  Wilderness 
crying:  "  Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord." 
And  like  their  prototype,  the  man  of  Jordan, 
plain-spoken  and  uncouth  as  they,  there  came  a 
time  when  they  saw  with  sadness  that  they  must  de 
crease,  and  what  they  had  forerun  must  increase. 
Peter  Cartwright  prayed:  "Lord,  save  the 
Church  from  desiring  to  have  pews,  choirs,  organs, 
or  instrumental  music  and  a  congregational  min 
istry,  like  the  heathen  churches  round  about!  " 
And,  even  as  he  prayed,  he  must  have  seen  that 
the  prayer  was  foreordained  never  to  be  an 
swered.  Something  of  desperation  was  in  his 
cry:  "  The  educated  ministry,  the  settled  pastor 
ate,  has  been  tried  time  and  again,  and  every 
time  has  proved  to  be  a  perfect  failure."  It  was 

85 


OUR  TOWN 

the  bitter  anger  of  a  man  that  clearly  foresees  de 
feat  that  made  him  scorn  the  theological  semi 
naries  as  "  preacher  factories,"  and  compare  their 
finished  products  to  so  many  "  goslings  that  have 
got  the  straddles  from  wading  in  the  dew." 

And  yet,  if  he  could  come  back  to  earth,  not  as 
he  left  it,  a  weary,  worn-out  man,  but  as  when,  a 
mere  stripling,  he  heard  a  voice  from  heaven  call 
ing,  "Peter!  Look  up!"  if  he  could  return  to 
us,  nineteen  years  old  again,  with  all  the  godlike 
fervency  of  youth,  and  all  the  good,  hard  com 
mon  sense  that  was  his,  he  would  be  none  of  those 
who  shake  their  heads  and  "  deplore  the  tendency 
of  the  age,"  as  if  God  were  an  old  man  now,  no 
longer  knowing  His  own  business !  These  have 
been  twaddling  their  tinkling  little  "  gospel 
hymns "  so  long  that  they  have  forgotten  the 
sturdy  lines  that  stayed  and  comforted  so  many 
in  the  days  when  they  had  good  times  in  religion: 

"  We'll  praise  Him  for  all  that  is  past, 
And  trust  Him  for  all  that's  to  come." 


86 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OTIR  TOWN 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

WHAT  was  the  first  real  "  the-ay-ter  " 
play  you  ever  went  to? 
I    can    hear    you    say    "  O-o-o-oh. 
.  .   ."   in  a  long-drawn  sigh.     I   can 
see  you  close  your  eyes,  and  a  faint  smile  come 
over  your  face,   as  you  recall  that  night.     It  is 
the  first  time  you  have  thought  of  it  in  many  a 
day.     Wasn't  it  just  gra-and? 

I  suppose  that  when  they  come  to  our  age,  the 
children  of  this  day  and  generation  will  hardly 
be  able  to  remember  with  as  much  distinctness 
their  first  real  play.  They  see  so  many  of  them; 
so  much  is  done  for  them  that  it  wasn't  thought 
well  to  do  for  us,  and  they  live  in  a  world  at  all 
points  so  widely  different  from  that  of  ours  "  back 
home."  And  even  so,  that  world  was  somewhat 
emancipated  as  compared  with  the  one  in  which 
Grandpap  lived  when  he  was  young.  In  those 
days  Grandpap  was  a  fine,  strong,  husky  fellow 

89 


OUR  TOWN 

(so  other  people  have  told  me;  he  never  said 
much  about  it  himself),  and  took  great  delight  in 
wrestling.  But  he  got  to  thinking  it  over,  and 


Took  delight  in  wrestling. 

the  upshot  was  that  he  stopped  wrestling,  right 
square  off.  He  applied  the  moral  touchstone 
of  his  day:  If  a  thing  is  good  fun,  then  it  is 
wicked.  I  mind  the  first  time  Grandpap  ate  a 

90 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

dish  of  ice-cream.  It  tasted  so  good  he  knew  it 
must  be  bad  for  the  health.  So  he  went  and  took 
a  pill  to  counteract  the  evil. 

In  his  young  days  all  that  people  could  do  — 
nice  people,  I  mean,  not  the  rough  element  —  was 
to  attend  to  business,  farming  or  shoemaking  or 
housekeeping  or  whatever;  and  to  try  to  be  good 
men  and  women.  What  kind  of  a  life  is  that? 
When  folks  don't  do  anything  foolish,  but  just 
attend  to  business  and  try  to  be  good  —  why, 
they  might  as  well  be  dead.  That's  the  way  I 
look  at  it.  The  rough  element  might  go  to 
dances,  might  play  euchre  and  seven-up;  might 
read  novels;  might  fiddle;  might  go  to  horse-races 
and  the  playhouse;  might  wear  gold  and  silver 
and  costly  apparel,  such  as  gold  collar-buttons, 
and  neckties,  and  artificial  flowers,  and  ruffles, 
and  ribbons  and  beads,  and  all  such  dew-dabs;  but 
not  nice  people,  not  people  that  wanted  to  be 
somebody.  And  here's  a  funny  thing:  In  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  girls  wore  no  ruffles  and  beads 
and  ribbons  and  artificial  flowers,  but  went  around 
in  plain  straight  skirts  and  slat  sunbonnets,  they 

91 


OUR  TOWN 

all   got  married.     Some   of  them,   two   or   three 
times.     Now,  how  do  you  account  for  that? 

This  thing  of  being  sensible  and  good  went  well 
enough  while  everybody  lived  in  log  cabins,  but 


They  had  to  buy  melodeons  and 
pianos. 

after  the  War  was  over,  and  the  men  that  had 
been  sleeping  out  of  doors  for  four  years  and 
living  a  pretty  strenuous  life  came  home  and  be 
gan  to  put  the  same  energy  into  business  that  they 
had  put  into  fighting,  things  began  to  hum.  The 
country  went  ahead  like  a  scared  rabbit.  People 

92 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

made  money  so  fast  that  they  had  to  put  some  of 
it  on  their  backs.  They  had  to  buy  melodeons 
and  pianos.  Now,  pretty  nearly  the  first  thing 
you  learn  when  you  take  music  lessons  is  the 
"  Sack  Waltz."  As  a  natural  consequence,  when 
ever  you'd  find  half  a  dozen  girls  together,  one  of 
them  would  have  her  skirts  drawn  up  to  her  shoe- 
tops,  so  the  others  could  see  how  she  moved  her 
feet,  and  she'd  be  counting,  "  One,  two,  three, 
One,  two,  three."  It  wasn't  long  before  they 
got  in  a  real  organ,  and  a  paid  choir,  and  stained- 
glass  windows,  and  a  carpet  on  the  floor.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  even  the  U.  P's  had  organs 
now  in  the  meeting-houses. 

Well,  you  know  what  all  that  leads  to.  You 
might  stave  it  off  a  little  while,  you  might  titivate 
yourself  with  lectures  on  "  Does  Death  End  All?  " 
by  the  Rev.  Joseph  Cook,  but  you  had  to  own  up 
that  you  liked  John  B.  Gough  a  lot  better.  He 
—  er  —  er — (Out  with  it!)  —  Well,  he  kind  o' 
acted  it  out  more.  Now,  take  the  "  Swiss  Bell- 
ringers,"  for  example.  The  music  was  lovely  and 
elevating  to  the  mind,  and  all  like  that,  but  the 

93 


OUR  TOWN 

fellow  that  was,  with  them  —  what  was  his  name, 
now?  Sol.  Smith  Russell.  That's  the  man  — 
He  was  a  heap  more  interesting.  He  acted  it  out. 
And  then,  about  that  time  along  came  a  lecturer 
on  "  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan."  Sheridan  was 
a  man  that  wrote  plays,  yes,  I  know,  but  don't 


Now,  take  the  Swiss.  Bell-ringers. 

you  see?  It  was  English  Literature  the  man  was 
lecturing  about,  and  it  was  merely  incidental  that 
he  should  tell  about  the  characters,  Bob  Acres,  and 
Sir  Lucius  O' Trigger,  and  the  rest.  He  did  it 
very  well,  and  you  could  tell  right  away  which 
was  which  character,  but  it  kind  of  made  you  wish 
that  .  .  .  that  .  .  . 

94 


Just  about  that  time,  too,  the  elocution  teacher 
came  to  our  town.  A  lot  of  people  learned  from 
him  how  to  talk  like  a  dry  cistern.  I  won't  be 
sure,  but  I  think  he  was  the  first  to  start  the  fash 
ion  of  saying  "  i-ther  "  and  "  thurfore,"  two  pro 
nunciations  which  confer  distinction  upon  any 
discourse,  I  think  even  more  so  than  "  disremem- 
ber."  (There  was  something  so  dressed  up  about 
"  disremember."  So  much  more  refined  than 
"  fergit.")  You  remember  the  elocution  teacher, 
and  his  plug  hat,  and  his  ginger-colored  whiskers 
dyed  a  crape  black  up  to  within  an  eighth  of  an 
inch  of  the  roots.  You  remember  his  explosives 
and  effusives,  his  gutturals  and  pectorals,  his  oro- 
tunds  and  orals,  his  "Ho!  Ha!  Hee! 
Hoo !  "  his  wavings  and  weavings  of  hands,  "  from 
the  shoulder  always;  never  from  the  elbows." 
You  remember  his: 

"  Rrrrrrr-ouse  h-ye  Ro-MUNS?  H-rrrrrr- 
ouse  ye  sul-LAVES!"  his: 

"  Hn-thy  liver  /ov«-ah,  CUR-few  SHALLLL 
LL//11  not  ha-rrrrringngng  to  NIGHTTTT-t!  " 
and  his: 

97 


OUR  TOWN 

"  Hea-ea-ear  the  sledgeeswiththeirbellllllls, 
SEE-eelver  bellllllls!" 

Quite  a  few  in  our  town  took  lessons  from  him. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  a  body  could  never  get 
a  chance  to  practise.  The  girl  that  took  piano 


The  fellow  that  played  the  "  tooby  " 
could  go  down  to  the  barn. 

lessons  might  clatter  and  boom  up  and  down 
the  scale  in  contrary  motion  from  breakfast  till 
bedtime,  and  nobody  noticed  it;  the  fellow  that 
played  the  "  tooby  "  in  the  band  could  take  the 
lantern  and  go  down  to  the  barn  and  snort  by  the 
hour  "  Poomp !  Poomp !  Poom-poom-poom- 
poomp!  "  and  nobody  made  fun  of  him.  But  let 

98 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

an  elocution  student  start  in  with  "Ho!  Ha! 
Hee!  Hoo!"  and  Pap  would  fling  down  his 
Examiner  with  "  Aw,  let  up  on  that!  "  and  if  you 
persevered,  he  would  bawl  out,  "  Give  that  calf 
more  room !  "  There'd  be  a  crowd  out  on  the 


Has  to  keep  one  ear 
hung  out  for  the  rat 
tle  of  a  wagon. 

front  sidewalk  in  no  time,  mocking  you,  and  mak 
ing  that  sound  with  their  soft  palates,  a  kind  of 
snoring  laugh  which  is  so  chilling  to  the  artistic 
temperament.  If  he  goes  out  to  the  woods  pas 
ture  to  practice,  he  has  to  keep  one  ear  hung  out, 
even  in  his  intensest  moments,  for  the  rattle  of  a 

99 


wagon  jingling  down  the  big  road,  carrying  a 
worthy  but  wholly  inartistic  couple  or  this  will 
ensue : 

"Whoa!  Ho,  there!  Stand  still,  can't  ye? 
.  .  .  Mother,  did  you  hear  that?  They're  killin' 
somebuddy  in  yan!  " 

"Why,  Pap!" 

"  Yes,  sir,  they  are.  Why,  jis  listen  to  him 
holler.  My  Lord!  Oh,  I  can't  stand  this." 

"  Now,  Pap  — " 

"  Don't  hang  onto  me  thataway.     Leggo." 

"  Now,  Pap,  now  don't  ye  go  fer  to  git  mixed 
up  in  no  muss  'at  don't  concern  you,  runnin'  head 
long  into  danger  like  that.  Now,  Pap !  An'  a 
mortgage  on  the  farm,  smf!  an'  me  left  all,  all 
alone  in  the  world  with  four  little  helpless,  inno 
cent  children,  ahoo !  an'  the  milk  o'  five  cows  to 
'tend  to  —  Aw,  now,  Pap  !  " 

"  Mother,  it  ain't  human  for  me  to  drive  apast 
and  leave  that  pore  bein'  to  his  fate.  Now.  It 
won't  do,  I  tell  you,  to  wait  till  we  git  to  the 
Squire's.  It'll  be  too  late  then.  Whoa,  Fan! 
Whoa,  girl !  You  set  right  still  and  keep  a-holt 

100 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

o'  them  lines.     I'll  be  right  back.     LET  THE 
MAN  ALONE ! " 

He  crashes  through  the  hazel-brush  with  the 
noise  of  a  yoke  of  oxen,  while  his  poor  wife  sits 
perched  up  there,  sniffling  and  "  all  of  a  trimble," 


He  crashes  through  the 
hazel-brush. 

till  he  comes  back,  mad  as  a  hornet  and  red  in  the 
face. 

"  Aw,  just  some  fool  in  there  speakin'  a  piece! 
Go  on,  Fan!  Ck!  Ck!  Half  a  cent  I'd  V 
broke  his  neck  for  him.  D-tarn  .  .  .  fool!  " 

But  while  "  Kentucky  Belle  "  and  "  Lasca  "  and 
101 


OUR  TOWN 

"  The  Polish  Boy "  were  exciting  and  all  that, 
something  was  lacking.  There  wasn't  any  dressing 
up;  there  wasn't  any  painting  your  face;  there 
wasn't  any  curtain  to  go  up  and  come  down  (which 
is  perhaps  the  most  important  of  all,  since  a  cur 
tain  means  mystery,  and  charm,  and  magic).  But 
there  was  missing,  too,  the  reckless  deviltry,  the 
risk  of  something  which  I  will  not  further  hint 
at  than  to  say  that  these  blue-tipped  matches  put 
you  in  mind  of  it,  the  state  of  mind  associated 
with  euchre  in  the  haymow,  and  novels. 

Ah,  the  first  novel!  I  don't  mean  "Antelope 
Abe,"  but  the  first  bound  novel.  In  vain  you 
argued  with  your  mother  that  George  Eliot's 
Works  were  entirely  fit  and  proper  reading  for 
the  young.  She  took  the  book  and  turned  over 
to  the  title  page  and  pointed  her  accusing  finger  at 
the  black  and  shameless  words,  "  Adam  Bede,  a 
Novel."  She  had  you  there.  You  might  pro 
test.  "  Oh,  well,  it  ain't  a  dime  novel."  It  was 
"  A  Novel  "  just  the  same,  and  there  her  finger 
stayed.  Something  sank  within  you.  You  might 
talk  and  talk,  but  you  could  not  evade  the  fact. 

1 02 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

You  could  not  but  stare  where  the  finger  pointed. 
You,  you  were  reading  novels.  False,  false  to  the 
vows  you  had  made !  Knowing  the  good  and 
choosing  the  evil.  This  was  not  your  first  step 
downward.  Before  this,  you  had  borrowed  from 


You  heard  what  Brother  Longenecker 
said  about  that. 


a  neighbor  Shakspere's  Plays.  You  heard  what 
Brother  Longenecker  said  about  that  only  last 
Sunday.  He  said,  "  Shakspere  is  the  Devil's 
Bible !  "  And  you  had  borrowed  that  book,  bor 
rowed  it,  when  you  had  Butler's  "  Analogy  of 
Revealed  Religion,"  Nelson's  "  Cause  and  Cure 
of  Infidelity,"  '  The  Autobiography  of  Hester 

103 


OUR  TOWN 

Ann  Rogers,"  and  other  good  books  about  the 
house,  scarcely  opened.  Scarcely  opened.  What 
did  you  suppose  was  going  to  become  of  you  if 
you  kept  on  like  that?  The  next  thing,  you'd  be 
wanting  to  go  to  the  the-ay-ter.  And  something 
within  you  thrilled  in  answer,  although  you 
knew  then  and  know  now  that  the  word,  es 
pecially  when  pronounced  with  the  accent  on 
the  second  syllable,  connotes,  as  no  other 
word  in  our  language  does,  hardened  impenitence 
that  can  look  reproach  in  the  eye  and  say,  "  Well, 
what  of  it?" 

That  is  why  we  have  so  few  theaters  in  this 
country  and  so  many  Opera-Houses.  So  much 
of  conscience  is  left  to  us  yet,  that  though  we  may 
do  the  deed,  we  dare  not  speak  the  word.  Hence 
such  conversations  as : 

"  Coin'  to  the  Opry-House  to-night?  " 

"Why,  I  hadn't  thought.     What  is  it?" 

"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 

Perhaps  it  was  not  all  your  fault  that  the  Old 
Boy  leaped  up  in  you  at  the  bare  mention  of  the 
the-ay-ter.  The  dialogues  at  the  Sunday-school 

104 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

exhibitions  might  have  fostered  in  you  the  wish  to 
see  and  hear  character  impersonated.  The  min 
strel  show  your  daddy  took  you  to,  not  long  after 
your  curls  were  cut  off,  first  showed  you  the  luxury 


"  Coin    to   the  Opry-House  to 
night?  " 

of  the  sight  of  others'  miseries  (when  they  arr 
feigned).  It  was  in  the  old  Melodeon  Hall. 
That  was  before  Judge  Rodehaver  built  the  Opry- 
House.  All  the  comedy  went  by  you,  and  you 
wondered  and  wondered  what  the  folks  were 

105 


laughing  at.  But  the  afterpiece  you  understood. 
It  showed  how  it  would  be  away,  'way  off  in  the 
future,  in  1909,  when  the  colored  folks,  so  lately 
freed,  would  have  the  upper  hand  and  would  then 
give  the  white  folks  a  taste  of  their  own  medicine. 
A  lot  of  nig  —  Sh!  How  many  times  have  I 
got  to  speak  to  you  about  that  word?  It's  very 
low,  and  rude.  Only  Democrats  say  that  —  A 
lot  of  colored  gentlemen  were  having  a  fine  dinner, 
when  in  comes  a  poor  white  man  all  wrapped  up 
in  a  quilt,  his  cold  pink  legs  showing  underneath. 
He  begged  them  for  something  to  eat.  He 
couldn't  have  it. 

"What  did  you  eat  last?" 

"  I  had  a  peanut  last  week." 

Aw,  the  poor  man !  You  felt  so  sorry  for  him. 
And  just  when  you  were  wishing  they  would  tell 
him  to  draw  up  and  eat  himself  done,  Bang!  went 
a  cannon  or  a  pistol  or  something,  and  the  curtain 
came  down,  shutting  off  the  colored  gentlemen, 
and  the  man  threw  off  his  quilt,  and  there  he  was 
all  in  pink  tights  and  spangles,  and  dancing  to 
the  music.  And  coming  home,  your  father  ex- 

106 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

plained  to  you  that  the  man  was  only  pretending. 
He  wasn't  really  hungry. 

And  then  the  pammer-ammer  of  "  The  Pil 
grim's  Progress "  gave  you  an  inkling  of 
scenic  effect.  "  Pilgrim's  Progress "  is  (or 
was)  a  boys'  book  all  full  of  fighting  and  ad 
ventures.  It  only  had  a  few  black  and  white 
pictures  in  it.  The  pammer-ammer  was  a 
whole,  whole  lot  of  colored  pictures,  big  ones 
that  they  rolled  past  whenever  the  man 
clapped  his  hands.  And  maybe  Apollyon  wasn't 
a  fierce-looking  critter,  all  green  and  scaly,  and 
an  arrow-headed  stinger  on  the  end  of  his  tail ! 
But  it  was  the  effects  that  interested  you.  For  in 
stance,  when  Christian  first  started  out,  it  came 
up  to  storm,  and  they  turned  down  the  gas,  and 
the  piano  went  whanga,  whanga,  whanga  on  the 
bass  notes,  just  exactly  like  thunder.  And  then 
Christian  meets  Evangelist  and  asks  the  way,  and 
Evangelist  says,  "  Do  you  see  yonder  shining 
light?"  and  Christian  says,  "I  think  I  do." 
Well,  I  should  think  so  too,  for  there  was  a  hole 
cut  in  the  canvas,  and  just  then  somebody  put  a 

107 


OUR  TOWN 

light  behind  it,  so  that  you  couldn't  help  but  see  it. 
There  were  a  lot  of  those  things,  but  the  best  of 
all  was  the  Grand  Transformation  Scene  at  the 
last.  Christian  and  Hope/id  swum  the  River  of 
Death.  It  seemed  as  if  they  swum  standing  up 
and  kind  of  cow-fashion,  but  we  didn't  mind  that, 
we  were  so  interested  in  seeing  how  the  story  came 
out.  And  sure  enough,  they  got  to  Heaven.  In 
the  next  scene  there  they  were,  being  pulled  up 
by  a  wire,  and  two  angels,  also  on  wires,  came  in 
from  the  sides,  blowing  on  horns.  And  there  was 
the  Celestial  City,  all  gold  and  white,  splendid, 
if  a  little  skimpy. 

And  here's  something  they  had  in  our  town  that 
I  don't  think  they  had  in  yours.  Just  as  Christian 
and  Hopeful  started  to  wabble  upward,  a  painted 
scene-cloth  all  blazing  at  the  edges  swung  across 
the  opening.  The  lecturer  gave  a  kind  of  jump, 
but  kept  right  on  talking,  and  pretty  soon  he 
bowed  and  smiled,  and  the  curtain  came  down, 
and  the  piano  started  up  a  grand  march,  and  the 
people  put  on  their  things  and  sauntered  out  talk 
ing  about  how  lovely  it  all  was,  and  how  much 

108 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

better  they  understood  it  now  than  they  ever  had 
before.  Apparently  it  never  crossed  their  minds 
-  it  certainly  did  not  cross  mine  —  that  possibly 
the  blazing  scene-cloth  might  not  have  been  down 
on  the  program  as  a  scenic  effect;  that  while  the 
lecturer  was  bowing  and  smiling  he  was  scared 
half  to  death,  and  if  the  piano  had  played  a  shade 
less  loudly,  I  might  have  heard  them  behind 
scampering  here  and  there  for  buckets  of  water, 
and  stamping  out  the  blazing  canvas.  So  far  as 
I  know,  never  a  word  got  out  that  would  make 
people  understand  how  near  they  came  to  being 
burned  alive  or  trampled  to  death  that  night. 

And  speaking  of  fire  makes  me  think  of  red 
fire  and  the  entertainment  they  got  up  for  Center 
Street  M.  E.  when  they  were  going  to  build  the 
new  church.  It  ran  for  three  nights.  They 
called  it  "  Tableaux  Vivants."  When  I  say 
"  they,"  I  mean  the  bills,  for  the  people  just 
skipped  those  words.  That  is,  all  of  them  did 
except  those  folks  who  always  make  fun  of  every 
thing  stylish.  They  said,  "  Tab-lokes  Vi-vance ! 
What  in  tunket  is  tab-lokes  vi-vance?"  In  case 

109 


you  don't  know  what  these  words  mean,  I'll  ex 
plain  that  it's  where  you  get  folks  to  dress  up  and 
stand  just  so  and  not  move,  and  then  you  pull  the 
curtain  up,  and  when  they  can't  stand  it  any  longer 
without  breathing,  you  let  the  curtain  down,  and 
you  burn  red  fire  so's  the  light  will  shine  on  them. 
The  reason  why  you  mustn't  breathe  is,  that  if 
you  do,  the  smoke  of  the  red  fire  will  make  you 
cough.  I  don't  know  whether,  when  you  saw 
these  ...  er  ...  these  what-you-may-callums, 
they  had  what  they  had  the  night  I  went.  The 
program  said:  "Poses  Statuesques  —  Ajax  De 
fying  the  Lightnings  —  Cain  Killing  Abel  —  The 
Dying  Gladiator."  Well,  sir,  when  the  curtain 
went  up,  there  stood  a  man  without  anything  on 
but  a  suit  of  union  underwear,  no  pants  or  shirt 
or  anything  but  just  this  white  suit  of  underclothes, 
looked  like  it  was  all  in  one  piece,  and  his  face 
was  all  white,  and  he  had  kind  of  cotton-batting 
hair,  and  he  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  marble 
statue,  like  that  one  on  the  Clayton  Monument 
down  at  the  cemetery,  only  that  is  a  marble  angel 
with  a  nightgown  on,  and  kind  of  holes  cut  in  the 

no 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

back  to  let  the  wings  go  through,  though  how  they 
get  the  feathers  through  without  rumpling  them  all 
up,  I  never  could  see.  This  man  I'm  telling  you 
about  was  a  fine-looking  young  man  and  very  well- 
built  but  —  Well,  what's  your  opinion?  Do  you 


To  set  a  good  exam 
ple  to  the  young? 


think  such  a  thing  is  calculated  to  set  a  good  ex 
ample  to  the  young?  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
talk  about  it  at  the  time,  I  remember,  especially 
among  the  old  stick-in-the-muds  up  in  the  Amen 
corner,  and  I  heard  that  old  Aunt  Betty  Mooney 
went  so  far  as  to  threaten  to  take  out  her  letter. 
She  said  such  goings-on  were  perfectly  scandalous, 

in 


OUR  TOWN 

and  if  that  was  the  way  they  were  going  to  do, 
she  just  wouldn't  stand  it.     Now ! 

But  there  could  be  no  possible  complaint  as 
to  the  last  thing  on  the  program.  When  the  cur 
tain  went  up,  there  were  potted  palms  on  the  stage, 
and  a  rubber  plant  tied  with  a  red  ribbon.  That 
was  to  show  it  was  in  the  tropics  somewhere. 
Then  a  lot  of  the  Company  K  fellows  marched  in 
with  their  guns,  only  they  wore  red-and-yellow 
uniforms  and  carried  a  flag  that  made  you  think 
of  a  horse-blanket.  It  was  yellow  and  had  two 
narrow  red  stripes,  one  at  each  end,  like  a  horse- 
blanket.  And  there  was  a  man  led  out  with  his 
hands  tied  behind  him  and  a  handkerchief  over 
his  eyes.  Then  we  knew  what  it  was.  It  was 
down  in  Cuba  that  time  they  were  going  to  shoot 
a  revolutionist.  The  captain  said:  "  Read-ay- 
ay!  Aim!"  and  just  as  he  was  going  to  say: 
"  Fire,"  and  the  women  started  to  put  their  fin 
gers  in  their  ears,  here  came  Abel  Horn  —  Oh, 
sure,  he  was  in  it.  He  was  in  everything  —  here 
came  Abel  Horn  and  threw  the  American  flag  over 
the  man  as  much  as  to  say:  "  You  just  dare!  " 

112 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

And  while  the  captain  was  studying  whether  he'd 
better  or  not,  down  dropped  what  they  call  a 
"  tar-po-le-on  "  that  they  had  hung  up  at  the  back 
of  the  stage,  and  there  stood  Jenny  Snodgrass 
with  her  hair  let  down,  and  a  kind  of  a  skating- 
cap  on  her  head,  and  a  big  shield  that  came  up  so 
she  cauld  rest  her  hand  on  it,  and  all  dressed  up 
in  the  American  Flag,  low-neck-and-short-sleeves 
and  a  trail,  or  would  have  been  a  trail  if  she 
hadn't  been  standing  on  a  white  box,  kind  of. 
Well,  sir,  that  just  settled  it.  They  dassent  to 
shoot  the  man  then,  and  they  lighted  the  red  fire, 
and  the  piano  started  to  play,  "  O,  say,  can  you 
see,"  and  the  people  clapped  and  stomped  like 
everything.  But  I  tell  you  it  was  a  mighty  near 
thing  for  that  fellow  with  his  hands  tied.  Little 
more,  and  he'd  have  been  a  goner.  It  was  bully. 
Coming  home  with  George  Donnyhew  that 
night,  I  said  as  much.  Now,  George  was  a  boy 
that  had  been  around  a  good  deal.  He  had  been 
down  to  Columbus  twice,  and  I  think  he  had  been 
as  far  as  Circleville.  "  Aw,  that  ain't  nothin'," 
says  he.  "  You  ought  to  see  a  real  the-ay-ter 


OUR  TOWN 

play  once."  At  that  moment  Satan  entered  into 
me.  I  fought  against  the  entrance.  I  knew  how 
wicked  it  was  to  think  of  such  things,  let  alone 
going  to  them.  But  I  also  knew  (rejoicing  and 
despairing  in  spirit  at  once),  that  a  day  would 


"  Aw,  that  ain't  nothin'," 
says  he. 

come  when  I  should  be  among  those  who  sat  and 
saw  the  Devil's  Bible  acted  out  on  a  stage  by  peo 
ple  painted  up  and  dressed  up  to  look  the  way 
they  did  in  those  days.  I  knew,  too,  that  very 
likely  I  should  sink  so  low  as  to  attend  a  "  variety 
show,"  and  that,  as  you  know,  scrapes  on  the  bot 
tom,  for  the  ladies  wear  short  skirts  and  kick  up 

114 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

their  heels,  as  bold  as  brass.  It  all  came  true,  I 
regret  to  say.  But  I  shall  also  have  to  tell  you 
that  even  In  a  "  variety  show  "  I  never  saw  any 
"  Poses  Statuesques,"  in  union  underwear. 

In  another  place  I  have  written  about  William 
B.  Bradbury  and  the  great  work  he  did  for  this 
country's  musical  development  by  his  composition 
of  sacred  songs,  whose  bass  was  invariably  do, 
sol,  and  fa,  so  that  any  young  man  who  learned 
those  three  tones  of  the  scale  could  join  in  without 
having  to  sing  "  air."  Bradbury  did  something 
which  contributed  more  to  the  dissipation  of  the 
old  fogy  notion  that  we  are  here  to  attend  to 
business  and  try  to  be  good,  than  any  other  one 
thing.  He  composed  "  Esther,  The  Beautiful 
Queen."  It  was  all  about  Esther,  and  Mordecai, 
and  the  Israelites,  and  that  rapscallion  of  a 
Haman.  Being  from  the  Bible,  it  took  the  peo 
ple  off  their  guard,  don't  you  see?  Musically,  the 
work  compares  favorably  with  "  Work  for  the 
Night  is  Coming,"  and  "  Shall  We  Gather  at  the 
River?  "  and  that  is  a  great  convenience  in  the 
matter  of  amateur  productions.  And  you  can 


OUR  TOWN 

make  the  costumes  out  of  cheesecloth,  blue  and  red 
and  yellow,  and  all  such;  and  it's  great  fun  getting 
it  up,  and  taking  the  girls  home  after  the  re 
hearsals,  and  there  are  more  solos  for  more  dif 
ferent  people  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at;  and 
there  are  no  end  of  chances  to  work  in  all  the 
nice-looking  little  boys  and  girls  in  town  as  pages 
and  train-bearers,  and  so  all  the  fathers  and  moth 
ers,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  husbands  and 
wives,  and  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins,  to  the 
fifth  remove,  and  relations  of  every  degree,  and 
friends  and  acquaintances  of  everybody  that 
"  takes  part  "  all  buy  tickets,  and  the  Opry-House 
is  chock-a-block  for  the  three  nights.  It  could  run 
longer,  but  everybody  in  it  is  just  played  out  with 
excitement  and  can't  stand  any  more.  There  is 
acting  in  it,  and  scenery,  and  costumes,  and  you 
paint  your  face,  and  the  curtain  goes  up,  and  all 
like  that,  but  it  isn't  a  the-ay-ter.  Not  at  all. 

It's  all  singing.     So  it  can't  be  a  the-ay-ter. 

Well,  if  it's  acting  and  costumes,  and  the  cur 
tain  goes  up  and  down,  and  it's  all  singing,  it  must 
be  an  opera. 

116 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

No.  It's  about  the  Bible,  so  it  can't  be  an 
opera. 

Well,  what  is  it,  then? 

It's  a  cantata.  Something  entirely  different 
from  an  opera  or  a  play. 

Right  here  I  must  confess  my  entire  unfitness 
to  write  on  this  subject.  I  suppose  I  am  the  only 
man  in  the  United  States  of  America,  able  to  sing 
the  scale  in  C,  who  not  only  has  never  taken  part 
in  "  Esther,  The  Beautiful  Queen,"  but  who  has 
never  even  witnessed  a  performance  of  that  great 
work.  I  never  had  the  chance.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  feel  proud  of  the  distinction,  but  I'm  not. 
It  makes  me  feel  lonesome.  You  saw  it,  and  I 
didn't.  You  were  in  it,  and  I  wasn't.  I'll  bet 
that  at  times  you  find  yourself  whistling  that  about: 
"  Ever  the  dutiful  more  than  the  beautiful,"  and, 
"  I'll  go  unto  the  King,  though  not  according  to 
the  Law."  Oh,  well,  that's  the  way  of  it  in  this 
world.  Some  have  everything  nice,  and  some 
don't  have  anything  but  trouble. 

But  I  saw  "  The  Drummer-boy  of  Shiloh,"  just 
the  same  as  you  did.  Laura  Hornbaker,  who  had 

117 


OUR  TOWN 

been  Esther,  was  the  girl  that  Mose  Coogler 
wanted  to  get,  and  that  Johnny  Durfee  got.  Mose 
was  afterward  Prosecuting  Attorney,  you  remem 
ber.  He  played  the  part  of  the  Rebel  Colonel, 
and  was  in  command  of  Andersonville,  and  who 
should  turn  up  among  the  Union  prisoners  but 
Johnny  Durfee  that  got  engaged  to  Laura  before 
the  War  broke  out.  She  mittened  Mose  because 
he  talked  so  against  the  Old  Flag.  Harry  Det- 
wiler  that  played  the  Dutch  Recruit  wasn't  in  the 
prison  scene  at  all  because  he  was  such  an  awful  cut- 
up  you  couldn't  help  laughing  at  him,  and  this  scene 
wasn't  intended  to  be  a  bit  funny.  The  Company 
K  boys  were  all  in  rags,  and  chalked  up  to  look  pale 
and  starved  to  death.  In  walks  Mose  Coogler 
with  a  bucket,  and  they  all  clamor  for  something 
to  eat,  and  he  scatters  wet  sawdust  like  it  was 
chicken  feed.  They  made  out  it  was  cornmeal. 
And  the  boys  grabbled  for  it  with  their  hands  like 
they  were  crazy  to  get  it,  and  pretended  to  eat  it. 
(Oh,  it  made  you  wild  to  see  'em.)  Johnny  Dur 
fee  was  supposed  to  be  too  sick  to  be  able  to  get 
his  share  (he  had  such  pretty  black  eyes  and  mus- 

118 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

tache!).  So  Little  Jimmy,  the  Drummer-boy  of 
Shiloh,  who  was  supposed  to  be  the  brother  of 
Johnny  Durfee  (young  Loosh  Benson  played  the 
part),  he  up  and  asks  Mose  for  something  for  his 
poor  sick  brother.  That  was  Mose's  chance  to 
get  even  with  Johnny  for  cutting  him  out  with 
Laura.  So  he  roars  out:  "  No,  you  Yankee 
dogs !  No-o  !  Right  here  in  this  prison  pen  you 
shall  rot,  starve,  and  die!"  (Oo-oo!  You 
ought  to  have  heard  the  people  grit  their  teeth 
at  that.)  So  Loosh  he  throws  himself  at  Mose's 
feet  and  begs  and  pleads  with  him.  But  Mose 
was  a  coward  as  well  as  a  villain,  and  he  shot  the 
poor  boy  dead.  That  is,  he  did  on  the  nights  when 
the  blame  thing  would  go  off.  Sometimes  it 
wouldn't,  and  young  Loosh  would  have  to  stagger 
and  fall  and  struggle  and  die  just  the  same  as  if 
he  had  been  shot.  Heart  failure,  you  know. 
Abel  Horn  was  in  that,  too,  and  after  Johnny 
Durfee  said:  "  My  G — !  Little  Jimmy  dead? 
This  will  kill  poor  mother!  "  Abel  had  a  speech 
like  this:  "  Comrades,  unknown  to  you  all  I  have 
kept  concealed  next  to  my  heart — "  But  wait 

119 


OUR  TOWN 

till  I  tell  you.  One  night  he  forgot  to  put  the 
folded-up  flag  inside  his  shirt-bosom,  so  when  he 
came  to  feel  for  it  there,  he  didn't  find  it. — "  Next 
to  my  heart,"  says  he,  hunting  wildly,  and  reach 
ing  way  down. — "  Next  to  my  heart  " — (then  he 
whispered:  "Where  is  it?  Quick,  you  fel 
lows!") — "Next  to  my  heart  —  next  to  my  — 
my  heart  " —  Abel  was  getting  rattled.  Finally 
he  fished  it  out  of  his  pistol  pocket  where  he  had 
thoughtlessly  stowed  it. — "  Next  to  my  heart  the 
dear  Old  Flag.  Let  us  spread  it  over  Little 
Jimmy  for  Little  Jimmy  is  dead." 

Now  you  might  say  that  was  a  the-ay-ter.  It 
was  a  regular  play,  costumes  and  everything,  and 
all  spoken  except  in  the  last  act  where  Laura  sings 
"  There  will  be  one  Vacant  Chair,"  with  that  kind 
of  a  tremble  in  her  voice  that  she  got  right  after 
she  began  to  take  vocal  of  old  Prof.  Minetti  who 
plays  the  organ  in  St.  Bridget's  Church.  Yes, 
but  don't  you  see,  these  were  our  boys,  the  Com 
pany  K  boys,  and  we  wanted  to  help  'em  along. 
It  wasn't  like  upholding  regular  actors,  trapesing 
around  the  country,  too  lazy  to  make  a  living  in  an 

120 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

honest  way.  And  besides,  it  was  about  the  War, 
and  that's  the  next  thing  to  a  Bible  story.  Peo 
ple  went  to  see  it  and  laughed  till  they  got  to 
coughing  at  Harry  Detwiler  trying  to  make  his 
blanket  cover  both  his  head  and  toes  at  once  when 
his  stuffed  stomach  made  the  blanket  too  short, — 
people  that  would  no  more  have  gone  to  a  regular 
the-ay-ter  than  they  would  have  walked  into 
Oesterle's  arid  ordered  a  glass  of  that  mixture  of 
yeast  and  quinine  that  Oesterle  called  beer. 

All  this  time,  whenever  they  threw  show-bills' 
over  into  your  front  yard,  you  studied  them  till 
you  almost  knew  them  by  heart.  They  were 
these  long  narrow  bills  that  they  don't  have  any 
more.  Now  and  again  there  would  be  a  picture 
on  one  of  them  of  people  with  their  hands  clasped 
in  agony  while  they  saw  somebody  running  a 
butcher-knife  into  somebody  else.  How  you  did 
wish  you  knew  the  story  of  it,  and  how  it  all  came 
out!  But  it  was  wicked  to  go,  and  it  cost  money. 
But  one  day  the  man  that  papered  your  house,  who 
was  also  a  bill-poster,  left  a  complimentary  ticket 
for  you.  He  said  he  didn't  care  much  for  that 

121 


OUR  TOWN 

kind  of  a  show,  but  he  thought  maybe  you  would. 
Would  you?  Aw-haw-haw-aw-aw !  Would  you? 
Would  a  duck  swim?  Could  you?  That  was 
the  question.  Well  —  er  —  er  —  seeing  that  it 
said  "  Complimentary  "  on  it,  why,  it  would  be 


One  day  the  man  that  papered  your 
house  left  a  ticket  for  you. 

kind  of  ill-mannered  not  to  go.  Oh,  goody! 
Goo  —  But  —  er  —  er  —  How  about  your  get 
ting  home?  Because  it  would  be  pretty  late  at 
night.  Oh,  you'd  come  right  home  as  soon  as  it 
was  out.  Yes,  mam.  You  wouldn't  loiter?  No'm. 
Well  —  er  —  er  —  Wouldn't  you  be  afraid  to  be 

122 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

alone  on  the  street  so  late  at  night?  Ah,  afraid! 
You  afraid!  What  of,  for  pity's  sakes?  Well, 
you  know  you  always  said  the  covered  bridge  was 
so  spooky  after  dark.  Oh,  well !  That  was  a 
good  while  ago.  That  was  along  last  spring  when 
you  were  littler.  And  besides,  there  would  be 


•H- 


You  were  in  the  front  row. 

people  coming  home  from  the  the-ay  —  from  the 
entertainment,  and  you  could  come  along  with 
them.  What  time  did  it  begin?  "  Doors  open 
at  7:30.  Performance  begins  promptly  at  8." 

The  doors  did  open  at  7  :3O,  didn't  they?  You 
were  there  and  saw  'em  open.  In  those  days  there 
weren't  any  reserved  seats,  no  boxes,  or  orchestra 

123 


OUR  TOWN 

seats,  or  "  parkay,"  or  balcony,  or  even  gallery. 
There  was  just  the  flat  floor  of  the  Opry-House, 
and  rows  of  wooden  chairs  nailed  to  scantlings. 
First  come,  first  served,  and  you  were  in  the  front 
row,  so  close  that  you  could  just  see  over  the  edge 
of  what  the  janitor  called  "  de  flat-fawm."  You 
stared  at  the  drop  curtain  with  its  view  of  Swiss 
scenery  tastefully  bordered  with  painted  advices 
like:  "  Go  to  J.  P.  Runkle's  for  your  Hardw're, 
Stoves  and  Tinw're  ";  "  Highest  Prices  for  Coun 
try  Produce  at  Rouse  &  Walker's  Grocery  Store, 
Main  St.  opp.  P.  O." 

Dinny  Lynch's  orchestra  must  have  been  play 
ing  for  a  dance  that  night  somewhere,  so  the 
"  troupe  "  engaged  the  nig  —  the  colored  band 
from  the  South  End,  and  whenever  they  got  to 
going,  the  windows  of  the  hall  would  bulge  out 
ward,  and  little  flakes  of  whitewash  floated  down 
on  you  from  the  ceiling.  That  helped  to  pass 
the  time  a  little,  though  if  anybody  asks  you  if 
you  have  any  notion  of  how  long  a  thousand  years 
is,  you  can  tell  'em,  Yes,  you  have.  It's  just 
about  as  long  as  from  7  .'30  till  8,  the  first  time 

124 


"SS 

c 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

you  ever  saw  a  real  the-ay-ter  play.  But  you  en 
joyed  yourself  in  anticipation  —  until  you  heard 
something  that  made  your  heart  sink  within  you. 
Right  back  of  you  sat  two  farmers,  come  into 
town  to  "  set  "  on  the  Grand  Jury.  One  of  them 


"  To  be  continued  in  our  next." 

said  to  the  other:     "  Tell  you  what,  I  jist  bet  you 
anything  'at  when  it  gets  along  to  the  excitin'  part, 
they'll  come  out  an'  say,  '  To  be  continued  in  our 
next,'  like  they  do  in  them  weekly  paper  stories." 
Gosh  all  fish-hooks  !      If  they  did  that !     And  your 
"  Complimentary  "  was  for  one  night  only. 
Even  a  thousand  years  will  pass  if  you  wait 
127 


OUR  TOWN 

long  enough,  and  finally  the  curtain  did  go  up,  and 
there  on  a  green  sofa  sat  the  Lady  of  Lyons  with 
a  bunch  of  hat-trimmings  in  her  hand,  saying: 
"  I  cannot  think  who  it  is  sends  me  these  beautiful 
flowers  every  day."  Got  you  interested  right 
from  the  word  go.  And  she  had  such  pretty  rosy 
cheeks!  And  wasn't  Claude  Melnotte  perfectly 
elegant?  And  that  Mossoo  Bo-se-ong,  I  just  de 
spised  that  man,  didn't  you?  Think  of  him  draw 
ing  a  revolver  on  a  lady!  That's  no  way  to  act. 
And  then,  when  he  got  left  after  all,  and  he  says: 
"  K-hairses  on  ye  both!  "  that  old  fellow  (I  can't 
think  of  his  name  now),  he  jumps  up  and  cracks 
his  heels,  and  he  says  to  him:  "  Curse  away! 
But  remember  that  curses  are  like  chickens  and 
always  come  home  to  roost."  And  that's  just 
about  so,  too. 

So  far  from  the  story  being  "  continued  in  our 
next,"  it  was  completed  that  night,  and  more  also, 
for  they  had  another  one,  a  short  one,  about  a 
lady  that  took  in  roomers,  and  she  rented  out  the 
same  room  to  two  men,  one  that  worked  nights, 
and  the  other  days.  They  didn't  know  she  did 

128 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

that,  but  they  suspicioned  something  was  wrong, 
and  finally,  one  day,  the  man  that  worked  days 
got  laid  off  or  something,  and  came  home  unex 
pected,  and  here  was  this  other  fellow  in  his  room. 
Well,  sir,  if  they  didn't  have  it  hot  and  heavy 
there  for  a  while  ! 

Don't  you  remember?  Sure,  you  do.  Well, 
maybe  it  wasn't  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons."  Maybe 
it  was  "  East  Lynne,"  or  "  The  Marble  Heart," 
or  Maggie  Mitchell  in  "  Fanchon  the  Cricket," 
or  even  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  No  matter.  It 
was  the  most  entrancing  thing  that  ever  was. 
George  Donnyhew  was  right  when  he  said  of  the 
tableaux  vivants:  "Aw,  that  ain't  nothin'.  You 
want  to  see  a  real  the-ay-ter  play." 

Let  me  see,  now  —  How  long  was  it  after  that 
before  you  said  to  yourself,  "  I  could  do  as  well 
as  that"?  And  when  was  it  you  began  to  sub 
scribe  for  a  theatrical  paper  and  read  with  eager 
interest  the  news-notes  from  Ishpeming  and  Canal 
Winchester,  like  "Giddy  Girls  comb.  16  to  fair 
house.  Leap  for  Life  co.  21  failed  to  show  up 
and  house  dark.  Next  wk.  Sharon's  U.  T.  C.  co. 

129 


28-29"?     How  you  pondered  on  "WANTED 

—  AT    ONCE.     For    Bigelow    Bros'.    Refined 
Wagon   Show,   leading   juvenile.     Must  be   neat 
dresser  and  double  in  brass,  willing  to  eat  and 
sleep  on  lot.     We  PAY,  not  promise.     Mashers 
and  boozers,  first  offense,  Bing!     Address  Bige 
low  Bros.,  Jefferson  Center,  Shelby  County,  Ind." 
You  came  very  near  writing  to  them,  didn't  you? 
"  Wait  a  while,"  says  you  to  yourself.     You  have 
been    waiting    ever    since.     The    birthdays    have 
come  and  come,  each  one  a  little  swifter-footed 
than  its  predecessor,   each   one   exhaling  a   faint 
sigh,  as  it  found  you  less  likely  to  do  what  you  had 
dreamed  so  vividly  of  doing  —  er  —  (Whisper) 

—  going  on  the  stage.     You  could  do  as  good  as 
some  of  them.     You  could  do  it  better  now  than 
ever;   could  put  more   intelligence   into   it,   more 
feeling,  but —  (Whisper  again)  — you're  bigger 
around  the  waist. 

Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  again  that  first  real 
the-ay-ter  play  of  yours,  if  you  could  see  it  with 
the  same  eager  interest,  if  once  again  you  could 
sit  there  tranced,  your  lips  moving  as  the  actors 

130 


THE  DRAMA  IN  OUR  TOWN 

spoke  their  lines?  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see 
"  The  Drummer-boy  of  Shiloh  "  once  more  if  you 
could  laugh  at  Harry  Detwiler's  fooling  and 
grit  your  teeth  at  Mose  Coogler's  villainy? 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  the  girls  home  from  the 
rehearsal  of  "  Esther,"  singing,  through  the  quiet 
streets,  "  Go  thou  unto  the  King"?  I  think  I'd 
like  to  see  the  pammerammer  of  "  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress  "  again  if  I  could  also  see  a  resemblance 
in  the  tremolando  of  the  bass  notes  of  the  piano 
to  the  rolling  thunder,  and  if  I  were  right  sure 
they  would  have  "Poses  Statuesque  —  Ajax  De 
fying  the  Lightnings  —  Cain  Killing  Abel  —  The 
Dying  Gladiator,"  and  it  was  for  the  new  Center 
Street  M.  E.  I  believe  I'd  buy  a  ticket  to  the 
'  Tableaux  Vivants,"  and  go,  even  if  the  smoke  of 
the  red  fire,  "  the  incense  of  the  scene,"  as  Abel 
Horn  called  it,  did  make  me  cough.  Alive  yet? 
Yes,  indeed.  Abel's  in  the  insurance  business  up 
in  the  northern  part  of  the  State  somewhere. 
Alive?  Well,  I  guess.  Just  married  his  third 
wife  the  other  day.  Who  was  this  that  was 
telling  me? 

133 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

GENTLE  READER:     Up  to  now  you 
and  I  have  walked  along,  in  our  jour- 
neyings  back  home,  with  our  arms  in 
terlocked  upon  each  other's  shoulders, 
thicker  than  thieves.     Whenever  I  have  given  my 
experience,  and  told  my  "  tribbles  and  trialations," 
as  Brother  John  Warnock  said  in  class  meeting 
one  time,  you  have  grinned  all  over  your  face  and 
wagged  your  head  and  agreed:     "  Yes,  sir,  that's 
so.     Now,  that's  jist  the  way  it  was." 

I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  you,  but  I  begin 
to  feel  kind  of  uneasy  about  that  sort  of  thing. 
I'm  so  constituted  that  it's  bad  for  my  health 
to  have  folks  agree  with  me  all  the  time.  It  gets 
so  monotonous.  I  don't  see  but  what  you  and  I 
will  have  to  have  a  row.  It's  bound  to  come 
sometime  and  we  might  as  well  have  it  over  and 
done  with.  And  yet  I  shouldn't  like  it  to  be  any 
thing  more  than  a  boyish  spat,  like  those  we  used 

137 


OUR  TOWN 

to  have  coming  home  from  school,  when  I'd  black 
your  eye  and  you'd  send  me  in  bawling  to  my  ma, 
with  my  hand  held  like  a  cup  under  my  nose,  and 
the  next  morning  when  you  passed  my  house  you'd 
yodel  for  me  the  same  as  ever,  and  I'd  snatch  up 
my  books  and  tear  out  of  the  house  so  as  to  walk 
with  you. 

Let  me  see  now  —  what  is  there  we  can  quarrel 
about? 

I  might  pick  a  fuss  by  calling  you  names.  I 
might  chant  at  you, 

"Moore!     Moore! 
Rick-rick-store !  " 
or, 

"Fie,  for  shame!     Fie,  for  shame! 
Everybody  knows  your  name!  " 

But  I  don't  know  that  your  name  is  Moore,  or, 
indeed,  what  it  is  at  all. 
I  might  tease  you  with 

"Black  eye!     Black  eye! 

Turn  around  and  tell  a  lie." 
or, 

"  Blue-eyed  beauty ! 

Run  home  and  do  your  mammy's  duty !  " 
138 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

which  is  a  terrible  insult  and  implies  that  you 
help  your  mother  with  the  dishes,  an  aspersion 
which  you  would  have  to  "  take  up  "  or  be  for 
ever  disgraced.  But  I  don't  know  the  color  of 
your  eyes. 

I  might  bristle  up  to  you  and  say,  "  I  kin  lick 
you.  You  think  you're  smart."  That  isn't  done, 
though,  to  pick  a  fuss,  but  to  get  acquainted,  and 
we  don't  need  an  introduction,  Gentle  Reader. 
And,  besides,  it  would  be  just  like  you  to  sniffle, 
'You  lea'  me  be,  now;  you  big  stiff!  Mai 
Ma-ma !  "  and  run  home  bawling. 

Let  me  see,  now  —  isn't  there  something  we 
can  squabble  about,  just  like  boys,  and  be  just  as 
unreasonable  and  loyal  to  our  side?  Let  me  see 
—  let  me  see  — 

I  have  it  —  politics. 

And  since  I  proposed  the  game  it's  my  first 
choice  of  sides.  I  choose  Republican. 

Hee !  Hee!  I've  got  the  advantage  of  you 
from  the  very  first.  I've  got  something  to  holler 
at  you,  and  you  haven't  anything  to  holler  back 
at  me. 

139 


OUR  TOWN 

"Sixteen    rats!     Sixteen    cats! 
Sixteen  dirty  Democrats !  " 

I  knew  that  would  grind  you.  Your  side  hasn't 
any  poetry  like  that.  Not  smart  enough.  The 
nearest  you  ever  came  to  it  was  a  long  time  ago 
when  you  could  say  "  329  "  to  us,  and  we'd  get 
fighting  mad  in  a  second.  So  many  of  these 
young  whiffets  don't  know  what  that  means  that 
we'll  have  to  explain  to  them.  It  seems  that  one 
time  Congress  voted  to  raise  its  own  salary,  and 
dated  the  raise  far  enough  back  so  that  each  con 
gressman  would  have  $329  that  he  hadn't  figured 
on.  But  it  was  such  an  unpopular  move  that  a 
statesman,  afterwards  nominated  for  President, 
covered  back  his  grab  into  the  Treasury.  The 
worst  thing  he  could  have  done!  The  very  worst 
thing  he  could  have  done!  Because  (if  you're 
a  politician)  when  you  get  caught  with  the  goods 
on,  the  thing  to  do  is  to  make  out  that  you  are 
working  in  the  best  interests  of  the  country,  and 
stick  it  out  that  it  was  your  plain  duty  to  do  that 
very  thing.  And  for  this  statesman  to  run  like 
a  whitehead  at  the  very  first  holler,  and  go  put 

140 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

the  money  back  where  he  got  it  —  oh,  that  was 
too  mortifying!  And  your  side  was  just  mali 
cious  enough  to  see  it  and  to  take  advantage  of 
it.  Bad  little  boys  thought  329  was  a  new 
naughty  word,  and  chalked  it  on  the  fences  and 
on  the  sidewalks,  to  the  horror  and  disgust  of  all. 
You  saw  it  everywhere.  Going  home  from 
church  you'd  see  it,  and  if  you  were  walking  with 
a  lady  you'd  have  to  say:  "Oh,  what  a  funny 
looking  cloud  that  is  !  "  to  divert  her  attention.  It 
was  everywhere.  People  who  lived  at  No.  329 
Main  Street  had  to  petition  the  Common  Council 
to  change  their  house  number  to  32yA.  They 
couldn't  stand  it.  In  the  early  part  of  the  cam 
paign  it  looked  as  if  our  candidate  was  going  to 
be  defeated,  but  after  this  329  movement  got  good 
and  going,  the  moral  sentiment  of  the  country 
was  awakened  and  our  candidate  was  triumphantly 
vindicated  by  being  elected.  He's  dead  now,  and 
he's  got  a  far  finer  monument  than  the  ramshackle 
factory  chimney  made  out  of  brickbats  they  put 
up  for  Lincoln. 

That  was  the  only  popular  cry  you  ever  got  on 
141 


OUR  TOWN 

us,  and  it  taught  you  a  lesson,  seemingly.  It 
taught  you  your  place.  And  when  we  shout  at 
you 

"  Sixteen  rats!     Sixteen  cats! 
Sixteen  dirty  Democrats!" 

you  take  your  medicine  in  silence,  the  same  as 
Tom  Lee  did  when  we  gathered  outside  his  laun 
dry  and  declared,  "  Chinymen  eat  rats!"  I  al 
ways  associated  the  two  cries. 

I  suppose  most  people  have  an  Uncle  Jack, 
the  same  as  I  did.  Uncle  Jack's  Christian  name 
was  not  John.  It  was  ...  I  kind  of  hate  to 
tell  you  .  .  .  His  initials  were  A.  J.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  might  as  well  out  with  it,  I  suppose.  His 
name  was  Andrew  Jackson,  and  they  called  him 
Jack  for  short.  So  —  so  you  may  guess  what  his 
politics  were.  There's  black  sheep  in  every  fam 
ily  and  it's  no  use  trying  to  make  out  different. 
As  you  go  through  the  world  you  learn  to  have 
more  charity  for  others'  failings,  and  you  try  to 
think  it  isn't  always  their  fault,  even  though  it 
does  make  you  hang  your  head  a  little. 

142 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

It  was  to  my  Uncle  Jack  that  I  made  my  first 
political  argument.  I  didn't  realize  what  a  sock 
dolager  it  was  until  afterwards,  when  I  heard  my 
daddy  telling  it  around  and  laughing  about  it  and 
saying  what  a  smart  child  I  was  for  my  age.  If 
Uncle  Jack  hadn't  been  another  Ephraim  joined  to 
idols,  that  argument  should  have  set  him  to  think 
ing. 

I  was  just  at  that  place  in  the  First  Reader 
where  it  says,  "  See  the  fat  pig.  Can  the  pig  run? 
No,  the  pig  is  too  fat  to  run,"  and  when  Uncle 
Jack,  who  had  come  to  town  all  dressed  up,  with 
a  ribbon  pinned  on  his  coat,  bade  me  sit  on  his 
short,  round  knee  while  he  felt  around  in  his 
pockets  to  see  if  he  couldn't  find  a  stick  of  red 
striped  candy  somewhere  on  him,  I  thought  of 
how  Uncle  Jack  would  look  if  he  should  try  to 
run,  for  he  was  what  you  would  call  "  a  fleshy 
man  "  if  you  picked  your  words,  and  "  a  pussy 
man  "  if  you  didn't.  He  made  inquiry  as  to  the 
progress  of  my  education,  and  let  on  to  be  much 
surprised  that  I  knew  my  letters.  To  prove  it, 
I  called  off  the  big  capitals  printed  on  the  strip 

143 


of  muslin  tacked  on  the  bottom  of  the  big  flag 
hung  across  Main  Street,  from  the  window  over 
Case's  Drug  and  Book  Store  to  the  window  above 
Mr.  Morningred's  New  York  One  Price  Clothing 
Store. 

"And  what  does  that  spell?"  I  asked  my 
Uncle  Jack. 

"  That  spells  '  Democratic  County  Conven 
tion,'  "  answered  my  Uncle  Jack,  with  a  pride  [ 
thought  unseemly. 

"  Yes,  but  what  you  got  it  on  the  Union  flag 
for?"  I  demanded  to  know.  "Why  ain't  you 
got  it  on  the  Copperheads'  flag?  Ain't  the  Demo 
crats  Copperheads?  "  Uncle  Jack  got  red  as  fire, 
but  he  said:  ;<  We're  all  under  the  one  flag,  my 
boy.  We  all  want  to  do  what's  best  for  our  coun 
try,  whether  we're  Democrats  or  Republicans." 
When  they  come  at  you  with  talk  like  that,  what 
can  you  say?  When  they  get  the  quiver  in  their 
voices,  I  mean.  I  knew  as  well  as  I  knew  any 
thing  that  Uncle  Jack  had  been  a  Copperhead; 
that  he  believed  that  when  the  people  of  a  State 
vote  of  their  own  free  will  and  accord  to  come 

144 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

into  the  Union,  they  have  the  same  right  to  go 
out  of  it  if  they  vote  to  do  so  of  their  own  free 
will  and  accord;  and  you  know  that's  not  only 
nonsense  —  it's  treason. 

Wait  a  minute.  Say!  You  and  I  once  came 
to  blows  about  politics.  Yes,  you  do  too  remem 
ber  it,  if  you'll  just  stop  and  think.  It  was  when 
we  were  in  Miss  Munsell's  room.  There  was  a 
Democratic  rally,  and  big  Pat  McManus  was  one 
of  the  marshals,  with  a  sash  on  him  and  all.  And 
he  came  riding  past  the  school  yard  when  we  were 
out  at  recess,  and  we  hooted  at  him  that  about 
rats  and  cats  and  Democrats;  and  just  to  show 
that  we  weren't  all  Black  Republicans  you  hol 
lered:  "  Hurrah  for  "  (whoever  it  was  that  was 
running  for  President  and  Vice-President  on  the 
Democratic  ticket  —  they  didn't  get  elected,  I 
know) ,  and  quick  as  a  flash  I  added,  "  And  a  rope 
to  hang  'em!  "  And  quick  as  another  flash  you 
hauled  off  and  hit  me  in  the  mouth,  and  I  hit  you 
on  the  head  and  knocked  your  cap  off,  and  you 
hit  me  —  no,  that  time  it  went  right  past  my  ear; 
never  touched  me  —  and  I  hit  you  in  the  face,  and 


OUR  TOWN 

the  other  boys  came  a-running  and  shouted,  "  A 
fight!  A  fight!  "  And  I  was  whirling  my  fists 
around  each  other  like  the  real  fighters  do  and 
studying  where  I'd  paste  you  if  I  got  a  good 
chance,  when  Enos  Barker  came  up  and  stopped 
it.  I  was  kind  of  glad  of  it,  for  my  lip  was  bleed 
ing,  and  the  blood  was  red  just  like  it  is  when  it 
comes  out  of  an  artery,  but  the  other  boys  were 
plum  disgusted  at  Eeny.  He  was  an  awful  bossy 
boy,  anyhow,  and  he  was  bigger  than  most  of  us, 
and  he  had  just  joined  the  church  and  was  what 
they  call  "  an  influence  for  good."  Why,  look! 
If  he  caught  you  at  it,  he'd  make  you  give  back 
the  marbles  you  had  won,  and  he  wouldn't  even 
let  you  say  "  Gosh !  "  You'd  have  to  say  "  Good 
ness!  "  Last  I  heard  of  Eeny,  he  was  running 
one  of  these  county  history  enterprises.  Say;  but 
he  did  everlastingly  soak  those  farmers  up  in 
Clark  County!  "All  the  traffic  will  bear!" 
was  Eeny's  motto. 

So  he  went  and  tattled  on  us  to  Miss  Munsell, 
and  she  had  us  both  up  before  her  desk.  She  told 
us  we  mustn't  fight  over  our  "  political  prefer- 

146 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

ences."  (I  remember  that  expression  as  plain  as 
if  it  was  only  yesterday),  and  said  she  would  let 
us  off  this  time,  but  the  very  next  time  —  she 
wanted  the  whole  school  to  pay  attention  —  the 
very  next  time  she  caught  anybody,  it  didn't  make 
any  difference  who,  quarreling  over  politics,  why 
—  she  hoped  a  word  to  the  wise  would  be  suf 
ficient.  By  golly!  she  was  a  terror  when  it  came 
to  whaling  a  boy.  When  she  got  done  with  him 
he  was  as  ridgy  as  a  wash-board. 

She  had  to  say  that  because,  theoretically  at 
least,  Democrats  do  have  some  rights,  but  I  could 
see  she  was  with  me,  heart  and  soul.  The  others 
were,  too,  and  all  but  said,  "  Goody!  Goody!  " 
when  I  told  how  I  had  capped  your  sentiment 
with  "And  a  rope  to  hang  'em!"  So  I  went 
back  to  my  seat  with  a  swelling  heart.  My  lip 
was  swelling  some  too. 

That  night  there  was  a  drunk  man  on  the 
street.  That's  the  kind  of  folks  Democrats  are! 
That's  why  the  Democrats  like  to  see  it  rain,  for 
rain  makes  corn,  and  corn  makes  whisky  and 
whisky  makes  Democrats. 

147 


Hear  also  what  Horace  Greeley  saith:  "All 
Democrats  are  not  horse-thieves;  but  all  horse- 
thieves  are  Democrats."  (That  was  before  he 
ran  for  President  on  the  Democratic  ticket.)  I 
feel  sorry  for  you  fellows.  Honest,  I  do.  And 
I  felt  sorry  for  my  Uncle  Jack  and  troubled  in 
spirit  about  him,  because  he  was  a  nice  man,  and 
a  good-living  man,  and  a  sweet  singer,  and  could 
tell  such  beautiful,  scary  Indian  stories,  when  I 
went  out  there  to  visit  his  boys,  that  when  it  came 
bedtime  Aunt  Caroline  would  have  to  hold  my 
hand  all  the  way  upstairs.  It  was  a  shame  he  was 
a  Democrat  —  a  blame  shame,  so  it  was.  He 
was  no  drunk  man,  neither  was  he  a  horse-thief, 
and  it  got  me  why  he  should  want  to  associate, 
even  politically,  with  such  a  crowd. 

They  were  a  distinctly  inferior  class  of  people, 
and  always  had  bad  luck.  They  had  to  get  up 
that  cheerful  saying  about  rain,  because  whenever 
they  had  a  rally  or  anything  it  almost  always 
rained.  Their  sky-rockets  weren't  near  so  pretty 
as  ours  and  didn't  go  half  so  high. 

And  when  they  had  the  band  it  didn't  blow  as 
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THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

loud  for  them  as  for  us,  or  play  such  nice  tunes. 
And  you  could  see  the  band  felt  ashamed  to  have 
to  turn  out  for  Democrats,  and  always  made  a 
point  of  giving  them  "  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the 
Ocean,"  because  in  the  first  line  of  the  second 
verse  there  is  a  distinct  allusion  to  Democrats. 
You  never  thought  of  it?  Why,  it  says  as  plain 
as  anything: 

'  The  wine-cup,  the  wine-cup  bring  hither," 
and  if  that  isn't  hinting  pretty  strong  I  don't 
know  what  is. 

Their  torchlight  parades  were  regular  fizzles. 
"  About  a  hundred  men  and  boys  in  line,"  the  Ex 
aminer  said  about  them  always.  But  our  parades 
were  fine.  Sometimes  there  would  be  about  a 
million  in  line.  Well,  of  course,  not  quite  as 
many  as  that,  but  pretty  nearly  though  —  pretty 
nearly. 

We'd  be  up  on  Richardson's  steps  on  Main 
Street,  where  we  could  see  'way,  'way  down  to  the 
South  End.  It  would  be  all  dark  except  for  the 
coal-oil  lamps  in  the  windows  of  the  stores  and 
on  the  wooden  posts  at  the  street  corners.  Every 

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OUR  TOWN 

once  in  a  while  we'd  stand  on  our  tiptoes  to  see 
if  they  weren't  coming  yet,  and  the  grown  folks 
would  give  us  an  impatient  shake  and  say,  "  No, 
child,  not  yet  —  not  for  a  good  while  yet,"  and 
go  on  talking  the  inconsequential  foolishness  that 
grown  folks  will  talk  when  they  get  together, 
about  how  old  man  Dietrich  wasn't  expected  to 
live,  and  how  they  had  telegraphed  for  Jinny  and 
Ed,  and  all  such  stuff  as  that.  And  we'd  gape 
till  the  tops  of  our  heads  seemed  likely  to  come  off, 
and  mother  would  say,  "  I  don't  know  what  pos 
sessed  me  to  bring  these  young  ones  out.  They 
ought  to  be  in  bed  this  minute.  It's  just  the  ru 
ination  of  children  to  keep  'em  up  so  late,  but  they 
teased  so  to  come  along  that  there  wasn't  any  liv 
ing  with  'em,  so  they'll  just  have  to  prop  their 
eyes  open  the  best  way  they  can,"  and  we'd  chirp 
up,  "  Oh,  I  ain't  —  hee-hy.  Ho-hum!  —  sleepy  a 
bit,"  and  try  not  to  gape,  or  if  we  had  to,  we  did 
it  mannerly  behind  our  hands.  And  pretty  soon 
somebody  would  say,  "Hark!  what's  that?" 
And  away  off  somewhere  you  could  hear: 
"Boomp!  —  Boomp!  —  Boomp-boomp-boomp ! 

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Boomp !  —  Boomp  1  —  Boomp-Boomp-Boomp  1  " 
The  bass-drum!  (I  always  get  excited  when  I 
hear  the  bass-drum.  Something  doing!)  And  it 
would  keep  getting  a  little  louder  and  a  little 
louder  and  a  little  louder;  and  we  kept  getting 
more  and  more  excited,  and  just  at  the  psycholog 
ical  moment  the  line  turned  into  Main  Street  at 
Mad  River  Street,  and  the  drums  began  to  roll  — 
"  prrrrrrrr-rum-pum !  Boong!  "  and  the  solo 
cornet  to  go  — "  Tantara-tantara-TAH !  Teedle- 
eedle-TAH !  "  That's  the  introduction,  and  that 
grand  old  patriotic  air,  "  Marching  Through 
Georgia,"  would  set  the  pulses  to  leaping. 

It's  strange,  when  you  think  of  it,  that  of  all  the 
fine  tunes  made  during  the  war-time  that  alone 
should  have  lived.  I  don't  think  it  begins  to  be 
as  pretty  as: 

"  Brave  boys  are  they! 

Gone  at  their  country's  call! 
But  yet,  but  yet,  we  can  not  forget 
That  many  brave  boys  must  fall !  " 

And  in  lofty  sentiment  I  don't  think  "  Marching 
Through  Georgia  "  is  quite  up  to   "  The  Battle 


OUR  TOWN 

Hymn  of  the  Republic."  But  that's  only  a  funny 
song  nowadays  about  a  man  named  John  Brown, 
or  some  such  name.  The  real  patriotic  air  is 
"  Marching  Through  Georgia."  I  once  knew  a 
man  that  was  in  the  march  to  the  sea.  He 
brought  home  three  gold  watches  from  it.  He 
always  liked  that  tune  a  lot. 

Well  as  I  was  saying,  around  the  corner  came 
the  rows  on  rows  of  sparkling  lights,  with  all  the 
sinuous,  wavy  motion  of  one  of  these  woolly 
"  Fever-'n-ager "  caterpillars,  moving  up  and 
down  as  the  men  kept  step,  and  moving  to  this 
side  and  that  as  the  men  dodged  the  mud-puddles. 
Farther  back  in  the  line,  where  part  of  the  time 
the  men  heard  the  music  of  the  cornet  band,  and 
part  of  the  time  the  music  of  the  fife-and-drum 
corps  there  was  a  sort  of  joint  (as  we  could  see 
from  Richardson's  high  steps)  where  the  line  of 
lights  joggled  and  wabbled.  Uncle  Mose  Strayer 
always  had  charge  of  the  fife-and-drum  corps  un 
til  he  got  the  rheumatism  so  bad  that  Aunt  Becky 
wouldn't  let  him  march  through  the  wet  any  more. 
I  reckon  that  man  knew  more  nice  tunes  on  the  fife 

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THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

than  any  other  man  before  or  since.  He  knew 
"  The  Irish  Washerwoman,"  and  "  The  Fisher's 
Hornpipe,"  and  "  Money  Musk,"  and  "  Bona 
parte  Over  the  Rhine,"  and  "  St.  Patrick  Was  a 
Gentleman,"  and  "  The  British  Grenadiers,"  and 
"  The  Frozen  Leg,"  and  —  oh,  a  whole,  whole 
lot  of  tunes  that  would  make  your  foot  go  in  spite 
of  itself. 

Summer  nights,  just  at  dusk,  when  it  would 
be  all  still,  you  could  hear  him  from  far  across 
the  prairie.  After  he  had  done  a  lot  of  these 
"  quick  and  devilish  "  airs  he'd  stop,  and  we'd 
know,  just  as  if  we'd  been  there  to  see,  that  he  had 
run  the  fife  through  his  hands  a  couple  of  times 
and  put  it  away,  and  gone  and  got  his  old  Ger 
man  flute  with  the  one  brass  C-sharp  key  and  the 
finger-holes  all  worn  white.  And  then  he'd  play 
this  here  soft,  sweet  music  that  makes  your  throat 
all  swell  up  and  hurt  you,  and  you  sit  and  wish 
for  something,  you  don't  know  what. 

"  Oh,  father,  dear  father,  come  down, 
Come  down  and  open  the  door." 
and 

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OUR  TOWN 

"  Fly  away  to  my  native  land,  sweet  bird, 
Fly  away  to  my  native  land." 

He'd  always  wind  up  with  the  old  familiar  words: 

"  Believe  me  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms  that  I 
gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day," 

because  that  was  Aunt  Becky's  favorite.  The 
summer  after  she  died  he  didn't  play  on  his  fife 
at  all,  but  one  evening  we  heard  him  with  his 
flute  awhile.  He  ran  a  scale  or  two  on  it  and 
then  he  began,  "  Believe  me  if  all  those  endearing 
young  charms,"  but  he  didn't  get  very  far  with  it. 
He  stopped.  We  listened  for  him  to  go  on,  but 
he  never  did.  As  we  waited  I  heard  my  mother 
draw  a  kind  of  a  long  breath  and  sigh  it 
out.  After  a  little  my  father  said,  as  if  she  had 
asked  him  something,  "  Yes,  he  thought  an  awful 
lot  of  Aunt  Becky."  The  old  man  didn't  live  a 
great  while  after  that. 

I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  I  keep  wandering 
from  the  subject  so.  Seems  as  if  I  couldn't  stick 
to  my  text  when  I  get  to  talking  about  the  old 
times.  You  remember,  though,  that  when  the 

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whole  long  line  of  torches  got  into  Main  Street 
you  wondered  why  it  didn't  make  everything  as 
bright  as  day.  They  must  have  had  a  thicker 
kind  of  darkness  at  night  in  those  times.  It 
soaked  up  more  light!  You  wouldn't  believe  1 

It  was  only  when  they  got  right  close  to  that 
you  could  see  the  tin  cans  of  the  torches  wabbling 
in  the  crotches  of  the  staves,  and  the  red  and 
white  and  blue  oilcloth  capes  of  the  different  com 
panies:  and  only  when  they  were  right  in  front 
of  Richardson's  could  you  recognize  the  boys  you 
knew  walking  along  with  their  pas,  holding  hands 
with  them,  or  else  clinging  to  their  cape-corners. 
Other  boys'  pas  let  them  march;  it  was  a  funny 
thing  you  couldn't  ever  get  to  go.  Mud  up  to 
your  knees  —  nothing !  You'd  look  where  you 
were  going. 

But  even  if  we  could  not  march  and  go  help 
our  side  win,  we  could  cheer  and  wave  our  hand 
kerchiefs  and  hope  our  side  would  win.  It  almost 
always  did.  It  could  all  the  time,  but  it  got  to 
be  such  a  sure  thing  that  sometimes  the  Republi 
cans  would  say,  "  Oh,  I  guess  I'll  stay  home  and 

155 


OUR  TOWN 

clean  out  the  furnace.  They  don't  need  my  vote," 
and  that  time  the  Democrats  would  win.  They 
always  voted.  Sometimes  they  voted  two  or  three 
times  apiece,  which  is  no  fair.  But  that  is  a  Dem 
ocrat  trick,  and  you've  always  got  to  be  on  the 
lookout  for  it.  And  if  they  won,  why,  there 
would  be  the  dickens  and  all  to  pay.  The  weather 
would  be  so  bad  that  the  farmers  wouldn't  make 
more  than  half  a  crop;  or  else  it  would  be  so 
confoundedly  good  that  they  would  raise  too  much, 
so  that  they  couldn't  get  hardly  anything  for  it. 
And  there  would  always  be  hard  times  in  business 
as  soon  as  ever  the  Democrats  got  in.  Sometimes 
the  hard  times  would  come  just  because  the  Demo 
crats  wanted  to  get  in.  The  bare  suspicion  that 
there  was  the  least  show  for  them  to  elect  any 
body  was  enough  to  give  commercial  prosperity 
a  hard  chill  and  send  it  to  bed  with  a  hot  brick 
to  its  feet.  The  Democratic  legislatures  and  con 
gresses  would  do  the  foolishest  things.  You'd 
read  about  it  in  the  Examiner  and  wonder  how 
people  could  be  so  foolish.  And  the  mystery  deep 
ened  that  nice  men  like  Uncle  Jack  could  go  right 

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THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

along  voting  the  Democratic  ticket  and  upholding 
these  fellows  in  trying  to  ruin  the  country.  If 
they'd  only  stop  taking  their  silly  Democrat  pa 
pers  and  read  the  Examiner  they'd  see  it.  They 
couldn't  help  but  see  it. 

When  we  got  older,  so  that  we  could  sit  up  till 
nine  o'clock,  we  went  to  the  meetings  in  the  Opry- 
house,  where  they  explained  all  about  it.  It  was 
a  hardship  to  give  up  the  splendid  miles  and  miles 
of  torches,  and  the  funny  transparencies,  with 
their  comical  digs  at  the  Democrats;  but  if  we 
waited  for  all  that  the  place  would  be  full  before 
we  got  there.  One  look  at  a  Republican  meeting 
and  another  look  at  a  Democratic  meeting  should 
decide  any  fair-minded  person  which  party  he  ought 
to  belong  to.  At  the  Republican  meeting,  up  on  the 
stage  where  the  table  was,  with  the  white  pitcher 
of  water  and  the  glass  tumbler,  were  the  finest  men 
in  town.  There  was  the  President  of  the  Na 
tional  Bank,  who  was  dead  down  on  the  Green 
back  heresy.  And  old  Judge  Rodehaver  would 
be  right  next  to  him.  He  is  Probate  Judge  now. 
Before  that  he  was  County  Clerk,  and  before  that 

157 


OUR  TOWN 

he  was  County  Auditor,  and  before  that  he  was  — 
well,  I  guess  he's  always  been  in  what  you  might 
call  "  public  life."  A  fine-looking  man,  with 
thick,  white  hair  and  a  clean-shaven  face  and  the 
appearance  of  a  Roman  senator.  And  the  Post 
master  is  there.  He's  a  very  able  man  they  say. 
He  knows  better  than  anybody  else  in  the  county 
how  to  get  out  the  vote.  And  Caleb  Dyer  is 
there.  He  is  one  of  our  leading  citizens,  having 
started  from  nothing,  as  you  might  say  —  an  ex 
ample  to  any  ambitious  young  man  who  wants  to 
rise  in  the  world.  He  is  a  little,  small,  dried-up 
runt  of  a  fellow  with  a  gray  goatee  on  his  chin. 
He  lives  in  the  big  fine  house  on  North  Main, 
the  one  with  the  cu-pa-lo  on  top  of  it.  He  owns 
a  lot  of  property  around  town,  and  several  farms, 
and  every  once  in  a  while  he  gets  another  farm. 
What  does  he  do  ?  Why,  he  doesn't  do  anything. 
He's  not  that  kind.  He's  a  capitalist.  He  lends 
people  money  and  takes  a  mortgage,  and  then 
when  they  can't  pay  up  he  gets  the  farm  or  what 
ever  they  gave  for  security.  He's  very  "  s'rood 
in  business,"  if  you  know  what  that  means. 

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And  there  is  Major  Drew.  He  isn't  really  a 
major,  but  they  call  him  that  because  he  was  in 
the  war  and  looks  exactly  like  a  military  man  of 
high  rank,  with  his  white  mustaches  and  imperial, 
his  erect  and  soldierly  carriage,  and  his  loud,  brusk 
voice.  When  the  enemies  of  our  country  fired 
on  Sumter,  he  promptly  responded  to  the  call  o'f 
duty.  I  don't  know  for  sure  what  branch  of  the 
service  he  was  in,  but  he  was  one  of  those  gallant 
men  they  call  sutlers.  You  ought  to  hear  him 
make  the  Decoration  Day  Speech.  He's  grand. 
He  owns  the  woolen  mill,  and  when  the  hands 
tried  to  get  up  a  union,  so  that  they  could  strike 
and  gouge  more  wages  out  of  him,  he  mighty  soon 
put  a  stop  to  it.  There's  where  his  military  train 
ing  came  in.  No  insubordination  in  the  ranks. 
It  was  his  business  and  he  proposed  to  run  it  in 
his  own  way  and  not  be  dictated  to  by  anybody. 
Why,  if  he  went  and  paid  them  more  wages  they 
wouldn't  be  satisfied.  They'd  want  more  pretty 
soon.  And  they'd  only  spend  it  in  beer.  And 
if  he  cut  their  hours  down  to  ten,  that  would  only 
be  so  much  more  time  for  them  to  loaf  around 

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OUR  TOWN 

the  street  corners  and  pass  remarks  on  the  ladies 
that  went  by.  When  he  was  their  age,  before 
he  got  his  start  during  the  war,  he  worked  fourteen 
and  fifteen  hours  a  day  and  thought  nothing  of  it. 
And  so  would  they,  if  they  weren't  so  lazy  and  do- 
less.  So  he  fired  the  ringleaders  so  quick  it  made 
their  heads  swim.  That  put  a  stop  to  their  non 
sense  mighty  sudden. 

The  people  that  you  saw  at  the  Republican 
meetings  were  of  the  better  class,  don't  you  know. 
Nice  people,  white-handed  people  with  clean  col 
lars  and  pearly  finger-nails ;  employers  of  labor  who 
gave  the  common  folk  jobs  and  thus  kept  life  in 
their  bodies;  store-keepers;  all  who  frowned  upon 
the  saloon,  and  were  so  intimate  with  the  druggist 
that  he  would  let  them  come  back  where  he  made 
up  the  prescriptions.  The  Republican  Party  is 
the  party  of  Progress,  the  party  that  has  been  in 
control  since  we  have  begun  to  make  things  by 
machinery  and  accumulate  wealth  so  rapidly. 

On  the  other  hand  the  crowd  at  your  Demo 
cratic  meeting  was  composed  of  low,  common, 
working  people  that  applauded  by  "  stomping " 

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their  feet  and  squalling  "Hoo-ee!"  They  had 
on  hickory  shirts  without  any  collars,  except  some 
few  of  the  politicians  who  wore  long-tailed  black 
coats,  black  slouch  hats,  and  narrow  black  string 
neckties.  All  of  them  chewed  tobacco,  the  poli 
ticians  using  fine-cut  and  the  hickory-shirt  fellows 
navy  plug.  They  left  the  Opry-house  looking 
like  a  hog-pen.  The  hickory-shirt  crowd  not  only 
had  blue  finger  nails  and  calloused  hands,  but  they 
bragged  about  it.  "  Horny-handed  sons  of  toil," 
their  speakers  called  them,  and  they  cheered  as 
if  that  were  anything  to  their  credit.  "  The 
great  unwashed,"  was  what  the  Examiner  called 
them.  They  had  no  big  bugs  to  sit  up  on  their 
platform,  only  yo-haw  farmers  with  their  pants  in 
their  boots,  saloon-keepers,  and  the  lawyers  that 
got  what  criminal  practise  there  was  going. 
When  they  weren't  talking  flub-dub  about  indi 
vidual  liberty  (which  meant  for  the  rough  element 
to  have  their  beer  whenever  they  wanted  it),  they 
were  opposing  the  Republicans  just  out  of  pure 
contrariness,  and  sneering  at  them  because  they 
were  nice  people  — "  the  God-and-morality  party," 

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OUR  TOWN 

they  called  us.  (I  don't  see  that  that  is  anything 
to  be  ashamed  of.)  They  seemed  out-of-date, 
behind  the  times.  They  seemed  to  belong  to  An 
drew  Jackson's  day. 

Andrew  Jackson  was  all  right,  and  the  move 
ment  he  headed  was  all  right,  for  it  took  the  man 
agement  of  the  Government  from  the  hands  of 
the  landlords  and  propertied  class  and  put  it  into 
the  hands  of  the  small  farmers  and  the  men  with 
little,  hand-powered  industries.  But  another  rev 
olution  has  occurred  since  then,  the  transfer  of 
ruling  authority  into  the  hands  of  the  railroad 
magnates  and  the  big  manufacturers,  a  transfer 
that  began  during  the  Great  Rebellion,  a  period 
the  Democrats  do  their  best  to  ignore  for  good 
and  sufficient  reasons.  The  business  interests  of 
the  country  were  just  naturally  afraid  of  the  Dem 
ocrats  as  reactionaries  and  Bourbons  that  never 
learned  and  never  forgot.  When  Cleveland 
barely  scraped  through  the  first  time  he  was 
elected,  and  it  was  doubtful  if  he  would  scrape 
through,  the  professor  of  moral  philosophy  in  my 
college  got  down  on  his  knees  in  the  classroom  and 

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besought  the  Almighty  to  avert  this  terrible  ca 
tastrophe  from  our  beloved  country.  That  shows 
you. 

I  hope,  my  Democratic  friend,  that  I  have  got 
you  good  and  riled.  I  hope  you  are  just  hopping 
mad,  and  ready  to  tear  me  limb  from  limb.  That 
is  what  our  great  statesmen  like  to  see.  Anything 
but  "  apathy."  Apathy  is  a  terrible  thing.  Sup 
pose  you  were  at  school  and  a  boy  came  into  the 
yard  before  the  last  bell  rang  with  a  big  red  apple 
in  his  jacket  pocket  that  you  figured  would  just 
about  fit  you.  And  suppose  you  should  say  to 
him.  "  Oh,  looky!  Looky  at  that  funny  bird  up 
in  the  tree  yonder !  See  him  ?  "  And  suppose  the 
boy  was  apathetic  about  funny  birds  up  in  trees, 
what  chance  would  there  be  of  your  getting  his 
big  red  apple  without  a  fuss?  It  just  spoils  every 
thing  when  people  are  apathetic  about  politics. 
And  that's  another  symptom  of  the  degeneracy  of 
the  age  which  we  must  all  deplore.  I  have  known 
Republicans  of  late  to  vote  for  a  Democrat  be 
cause  they  thought  he  was  an  honest  man.  It 
wasn't  that  way  "  back  home."  Party  spirit  ran 

163 


OUR  TOWN 

high  there.  Why,  I  remember  one  time  there 
was  a  Presidential  campaign,  and  it  looked  as  if 
there  was  a  chance  that  the  Democrats  might  get 
in  and  ruin  the  country.  A  young  fellow  I  knew 
was  a  pretty  good  musician.  He  was  a  Repub 
lican  and  engaged  to  a  Republican  girl,  but  some 
how  or  other  he  had  Democratic  friends.  They 
were  going  to  get  up  a  glee  club,  and  they  asked 
him  if  he  wouldn't  coach  them  in  some  songs.  He 
said  he  would,  not  thinking  there  would  be  any 
harm  in  it  if  he  merely  coached  them  and  didn't 
actually  sing,  himself.  Well,  it  just  broke  off  the 
match,  that's  all.  She  cut  him  dead  in  the  street; 
wouldn't  have  anything  more  to  do  with  him. 

When  you  have  party  spirit  like  that  it  sim 
plifies  things  immensely,  not  only  for  the  politi 
cians  but  for  the  voters  too.  There's  no  need 
of  you  spraining  your  mind  thinking  what  you 
ought  to  do.  Just  vote  the  straight  ticket  and 
that's  all  about  it.  Why,  what  does  all  this  talk 
about  a  candidate's  being  honest  amount  to,  any 
how?  How  are  you  going  to  tell  whether  a  man's 
honest  or  not?  Maybe  he  hasn't  had  a  chance  to 

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THE  CAMPAIGN  BACK  HOME 

be  anything  but  honest  And  what  difference 
does  it  make  to  you  whether  he's  honest  or  not, 
when  he  votes  in  the  interest  of  his  class  and 
against  the  interest  of  your  class?  It  comes  to 
the  same  thing  as  far  as  you're  concerned. 

And  I  hope,  too,  my  Republican  friend,  that 
you  have  seen  that  all  the  time  that  I  was  giving 
it  to  the  Democrats  so  hot  and  heavy  I  was  mak 
ing  what  Brother  John  Warnock  would  call 
"  mean,  little  insinuendoes "  at  you,  too.  If 
they're  behind  the  times,  why  so  are  you.  If 
they're  still  hurrahing  for  Andrew  Jackson  be 
cause  he  got  manhood  suffrage,  why,  so  are  you 
still  hurrahing  for  Abraham  Lincoln  because  he 
freed  the  slaves.  The  world  keeps  moving  on. 
New  occasions  bring  new  duties.  There's  one 
more  transfer  of  power  has  to  be  made.  A  big 
one  —  the  biggest  ever.  The  right  to  vote  isn't 
all  there  is  to  liberty.  There's  more !  The 
right  to  live  and  to  bring  up  your  children  half 
way  decent  anyhow,  the  right  to  have  some  little 
time  to  yourself,  to  be  something  besides  a  mere 
machine.  All  these  great  inventions,  all  these 

165 


economics  of  production  and  distribution  —  we 
ought  to  be  getting  the  good  out  of  them.  We 
aren't.  Why  not?  Who  is? 

I  hope  I've  stirred  you  up,  whether  you  are  a 
Republican  or  a  Democrat.  If  I  had  to  make 
you  angry  at  me  in  order  to  stir  you  up,  well  and 
good.  But  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  stay  pouty 
with  me  very  long.  I  meant  It  only  to  be  a  boyish 
quarrel,  so  that  the  next  time  I  came  past  your 
house  and  yodeled,  you'd  grab  your  books  and 
slate  and  come  tearing  out  to  meet  me. 


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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

OF  the  old-time  home  the  Parlor  was  the 
pinnacle     and     blossom.     How     com 
pletely    that    has    faded    and    gone    is 
shown  by  the  fact  that  the  very  name 
of  "  parlor  "  seems  kind  of  old-fashioned  and  be 
hind    the    times.     Drawing-room,    reception-hall, 
library,  but  not  parlor.     In  my  day  I  have  seen  it 
depart.     Even  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  remem 
ber,  its  petals  were  kind  o'  droopy  compared  with 
their  stiff  rigidity  out  at  Aunt  Katy's. 

Aunt  Katy  was  a  step-relation  twice  removed. 
She  wore  caps  with  wide  strings  untied  and  floating, 
which  identifies  her  period;  mine  was  that  wherein 
"  The  Pilgrim's  Progress "  was  still  a  rattling 
good  adventure  story,  ere  ever  Antelope  Abe  had 
escaped  from  the  circle  of  bloodthirsty  redskins, 
who  sought  to  cut  his  raw  young  heart  out,  by  the 
ingenious  device  of  turning  handsprings  and  kick 
ing  Flying  Arrow  right  spang  in  the  nose. 

169 


OUR  TOWN 

"'Ugh I'  exclaimed  the  discomfited  chieftain 
as  the  brave  boy — " 

But  I  digress. 

Aunt  Katy  had  a  parlor.  The  inquisitiveness 
of  youth  elicited  this  fact,  which  seemed  to  be  of 
the  nature  of  a  guilty  secret,  for  the  motto  was: 
"  Keep  it  dark."  When  in  later  years  I  encoun 
tered  the  line  in  the  carol  about  the  three  kings 
of  Orient, 

Myrrh  is  mine,  its  bitter  perfume 

I  understood  at  once  how  a  perfume  can  be  bitter, 
for  I  remember  the  day  I  first  stepped  into  Aunt 
Katy's  parlor  and,  stealthily  closing  the  door  be 
hind  me,  inhaled  the  chill,  strange  aroma  —  not 
aroma,  not  scent,  not  odor;  these  names  are  all 
too  gross  and  heavy-handed  for  that  faint,  elusive 
quality  that  the  air  had.  In  the  cellar  below  for 
years  and  years  there  had  been  apples  stored  away. 
Was  it  the  ghosts  of  these  apples,  since  gone  to 
their  long  home?  Was  it  the  pale  spook  of  lav 
ender  from  the  clothes-press  in  the  spare  bedroom 
off  the  parlor?  Was  it  the  trapped  essences  of 

170 


.> 


•c 
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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

cakes  and  pies  and  quince  preserves  that  had 
thinly  crept  in  through  the  door-crack  and  sought 
in  vain  to  find  their  way  out?  Was  it  all  these 
together,  or  was  it  that  the  air,  prisoned  and  shut 
away  from  the  glad  light  of  day,  had  turned  sad 
and  regretful,  calling  to  mind  the  times  when  it  had 
whooped  and  screamed  across  all  the  white  fields 
that  lay  between  Aunt  Katy's  house  and  the  far 
country  of  the  Northern  Star;  when  it  had  played 
ring-around-the-rosy  with  the  romping  leaves; 
when  it  had  rumpled  the  white  petticoats  of  mod 
est  poplars,  the  while  the  thunder  growled  its 
surly  disapproval  of  such  carryings-on;  when  it 
had  swooned  in  ecstasy  over  the  blossoming  apple- 
trees? 

It  was  lonely  for  the  air  in  Aunt  Katy's  parlor, 
waiting,  waiting.  Sometimes  a  lone  fly,  arrived 
there  by  some  miracle  impossible  to  believe, 
buzzed  on  the  pane  behind  the  thick  blue  paper 
shades  with  a  blast  so  loud  it  seemed  a  trombone's. 
And  presently  the  fly  died  out  of  pure  ennui  and 
lonesomeness.  The  air  crept  languidly  about  the 
room,  with  a  motion  to  which  a  clock-hand's  were 

173 


OUR  TOWN 

hurried  and  impetuous,  vainly  seeking  an  exit. 
There  were  only  two  occasions  whereon  it  might 
be  free  to  come  and  go.  One  of  them  was  past 
forever.  The  nest  was  empty;  the  birds  were 
flown.  There  was  none  left  to  "  stand  up  "  now 
with  anybody  while  Brother  Longenecker  read  the 
binding  words  and  glad  dishes  rattled  in  the  din 
ing-room.  All  that  the  poor,  pale  air  in  Aunt 
Katy's  parlor  had  to  look  forward  to  was  the  day 
when  horses  and  buggies  would  be  hitched  to  the 
front  fence  as  if  Aunt  Katy's  were  the  meeting 
house,  and  when  the  folks  would  have  their  Sun 
day  clothes  on,  although  it  was  a  week-day,  and 
would  speak  subduedly  and  with  many  a  sigh  such 
words  as :  "A  shock  of  corn  fully  ripe,"  and 
"  Oh,  well,  she's  better  off,  I  s'pose,"  and  "  We 
all  have  to  go  when  our  time  comes,"  and  "  D'ye 
reckon  Barzillai'll  come  in  for  his  sheer,  after 
all?" 

A  narrow  strip  of  land,  the  North  Atlantic  sea 
board  not  only  considers  itself  (l)  a  part  of  the 
United  States,  but  also  that  is  (2)  the  United 
States,  the  mountain-chain  to  the  westward  of  it 

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being  practically  the  "  take-off  "  for  the  jumping- 
off  place.  Against  the  pestilential  heresy  of 
Proposition  Number  2  I  wish  to  raise  my  feeble 
typewriter  in  earnest  protest.  In  the  matter  of 
Proposition  Number  i,  I  am  open  to  argument. 
Technically  speaking,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  grant 
that  the  North  Atlantic  States  are  pro  forma  in  the 
Union;  aside  from  the  legal  fiction,  I  deny  that 
the  inhabitants  thereof  are  our  kind  of  folks  at  all. 
For  peace'  sake,  we  put  up  with  them;  we  listen 
to  what  they  have  to  say,  and  try  hard  to  remem 
ber  our  manners  and  not  let  them  know  what  we 
think  of  them.  But  there  comes  a  time  (and  this 
is  such  a  time)  when  the  truth  must  come  out. 
If  you  must  know,  we  think  they're  scarcely  hu 
man,  let  alone  fellow-citizens.  Americans?  Not 
by  a  jugful.  They  may  think  so,  but  they're  not. 
They  can't  even  speak  the  language.  "  Quite 
some  snow!  "  Is  that  our  mother-tongue?  Is 
"  burla  "  comprehensible  to  reasoning  beings? 
That's  what  they  say  when  they  mean  "  boiler." 
They  call  a  swing  a  "  scup."  The  land!  And 
claim  kin  with  us!  They  may  claim  it. 

177 


OUR  TOWN 

In  that  arrogant  and  stuck-up  land  I  s'pose  they 
do  not  prize  the  Parlor,  because  they've  always 
had  it.  I  reckon  when  the  moving-vans  drove  up 
from  the  water-front  with  the  Pilgrim  Fathers' 
household  goods  aboard,  there  were  haircloth 
sofas,  and  marble-topped  center-tables,  and  real 
hand-painted  pictures  with  which  to  dike  out  the 
Parlor,  or  what  they,  like  enough,  called  the  "  best 
rum  ";  but  it  wasn't  so  in  the  real  United  States, 
where  the  people  come  from  that  amount  to  some 
thing.  I  remember  Aunt  Katy  telling  about  how 
it  was  when  she  married  her  first  husband  and 
moved  up  from  Clark  County.  Her  man  had  to 
go  to  mill,  which  took  him  the  best  part  of  two 
days,  and  there  was  she,  all  alone,  in  a  log  cabin 
that  hadn't  any  door  except  a  quilt  hung  up.  And 
she  could  hear  the  wolves  howling  over  there  in 
the  woods  where  the  Stillwell  place  is  now. 

"  Tell  some  more,  Aunt  Katy.  Tell  about 
bears.  Did  you  ever  see  a  bear,  Aunt  Katy? 
You  did?  Wasn't  you  afraid  it  would  bite?  " 

And  Aunt  Katy  told  about  a  lady  she  knew  that 
killed  a  bear  with  the  ax.  All  by  herself,  so  she 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

did.  Her  husband  was  afraid,  and  run  and  hid. 
"  Hit  him  ag'in,  Polly!  "  he'd  holler. 

u  And,  one  time,  when  Pap  was  alive  — " 
But,  laws-a-me !  I'll  never  get  through  if  I  keep 
wandering  from  my  text  this  way. 

However,  you  can  see  that  in  a  one-room  cabin 
with  a  floor  of  hewed-out  slabs,  a  quilt  hung  up 
for  a  door,  and  mud  chinking  between  the  logs  — 
they  still  have  some  of  these  old  cabins  back  home, 
and  use  'em  for  cow-houses  —  there  wasn't  much 
of  a  chance  for  a  Parlor.  The  country  had  to  be 
settled  up,  and  folks  had  to  make  arrangements 
to  sleep,  and  get  dough  to  put  in  the  bake-kettle 
and  cover  up  with  coals,  and  meat  to  hang  up  in 
front  of  the  fireplace  to  roast,  before  they  began 
to  put  on  style.  First  the  essentials  of  existence, 
then  Art. 

I  suppose  it  is  up  to  me  now  to  define  Art. 
Just  how  dangerous  it  is  to  attempt  this,  especially 
when  the  word  is  spelled  with  a  capital  A,  I  trust 
I  am  fully  sensible.  It  is  a  sort  of  intellectual 
shooing  the  chickens  out  of  the  garden  through  a 
narrow  gate.  While  you  are  getting  one  through 

179 


OUR  TOWN 

(while  you  are  delimiting  one  field  of  Art)  the 
others  are  back  among  the  cabbages  tenfold  more 
the  children  of  the  Bad  Place  than  they  were  be 
fore.  And  while  you  are  chasing  them,  the  one 
chicken  comes  through  the  gate  again.  Also,  the 
job  is  complicated  by  the  row  of  distinguished  citi 
zens  leaning  on  the  garden  fence,  sneering  at  the 
futility  of  all  your  efforts,  most  of  them  in  Wind 
sor  ties,  velvet  jackets,  and  painty  pants,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  those  whose  inky  middle  finger  be 
trays  the  fact  that  they  are  not  artists,  but  chron 
iclers  of  artists'  doings.  Nevertheless,  I  am  going 
to  try  it  if  I  break  a  trace. 

Art  is  a  subject  of  which  we  can  all  truly  say: 
"  I  know  well  enough  what  it  is,  but  I  can't  ex 
press  myself." 

I  think  I  can  come  a  little  closer  to  the  bull's 
eye  than  that.  I  should  say:  Art  is  what  you 
would  put  in  the  Parlor. 

For  instance:  The  almanac,  hung  by  a  string 
by  its  northwest  corner  to  the  mantel,  was  in  the 
sitting-room.  But  Fox's  "  Book  of  Martyrs " 
(wherein  were  pictures  of  folks  undergoing  the 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

same  rough-house  for  conscience'  sake  that  had 
evidently  been  the  unhappy  fate  of  the  gentleman 
on  the  second  page  of  the  almanac)  was  in  the 
Parlor  at  Aunt  Katy's.  Her  Testament,  worn 
and  brown  and  tattered  at  the  place  where  the 
good  words  are  that  begin:  "  Let  not  your  heart 
be  troubled,"  was  in  the  window  of  the  sitting- 
room.  The  big  pictorial  Bible,  bought  of  a  stu 
dent  who  was  working  his  way  through  college 
and  expected  to  become  a  minister  of  the  Gospel, 
but  found  that  it  paid  better  to  sell  Bibles  on  sub 
scription,  was  on  the  center-table  in  the  Parlor. 
It  was  a  magnificent  affair  weighing  eighteen 
pounds,  had  lids  embossed  in  high  and  scooped- 
out  curves,  was  "  profusely  embellished  with  high- 
class  reproductions  of  the  Old  Masters,"  and  had 
enormous  ornamental  initial  letters  to  each  chap 
ter.  There  was  one  big  A  that  was  a  tent,  and  a 
soldier  was  throwing  a  spear,  the  spear  making 
the  crosspiece  of  the  A.  It  looked  interesting,  but 
the  reading  said,  "  And  these  are  the  names  of  the 
men  that  shall  stand  with  you:  of  the  tribe  of  Reu 
ben;  Elizur  the  son  of  Shedeur.  Of  Simeon;  She- 

181 


OUR  TOWN 

lumiel  the  son  of  Zurishaddai  — "  Oh,  a  whole 
lot  more  like  that,  and  nothing  about  the  man  in 
the  tent  and  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  the 
spear. 


No  good  at  all  for  chewing-wax. 

Aunt  Katy's  work-basket,  with  her  spools  of 
thread,  and  papers  of  needles,  her  scissors,  and 
the  ball  of  beeswax  (no  good  at  all  for  chewing- 
wax;  it  crumbs  up  so  in  the  mouth),  was  in  the 
sitting-room.  But  the  alum  basket  was  in  the 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

Parlor,  as  befitted  its  station  as  a  Work  of  Art. 
To  begin  with,  it  was  a  basket  of  corn-husks, 
deftly  woven  and  fashioned  to  look  like  those  in 
the  steel  engraving  frontispieces  of  the  Ladies' 
Repository,  wherein  girls  in  low-neck-and-short- 
sleeve  dresses,  gathered  at  the  waist  and  made 
full  in  the  skirt,  without  a  smidgen  of  trimming 
or  ruffles,  sit  on  a  mossy  bank  holding  this  kind 
of  a  flaring,  shallow,  and  spilly  basket  full  of 
pretty  posies.  Also  the  little  bits  of  girls  in  the 
kind  of  pictures  in  the  Department  for  the  Young, 
the  ones  that  wear  white  stockings  and  slippers, 
held  on  by  tapes  crossed  over  their  extremely  nar 
row  insteps,  carried  this  kind  of  a  basket  with 
flowers  in  it,  unless  they  held  a  watering-pot  over 
a  flower-bed  fenced  in  with  little  hoops.  If  those 
little  girls  weren't  all  dead  and  gone  by  this  time, 
I  should  hesitate  to  add  what  I  am  going  to;  but 
they  had  on  short  skirts  widely  buoyed  out  by  — 
I  feel  so  sort  of  red  in  the  face  and  bashful  — 
what  shall  I  call  'em?  Let  me  see.  Trouserines 
would  be  a  good  name.  Very  wide  and  full  they 
were,  and  came  down  nearly  to  the  ankles  in 

183 


OUR  TOWN 

points  that  were  all  punched  full  of  round  holes. 
I  have  heard  say  that  these  confections  were  tied 
on  at  the  knee.  Fancy! 

You  know  what  alum  is  that  you  get  at  the 
drug-store.  It's  good  when  your  store-teeth  don't 
fit  right  and  hurt  your  month,  or  if  you  are  learn 
ing  to  play  the  guitar  and  your  fingers  get  sore 
at  the  tips.  Dip  'em  into  alum-water,  and  it 
toughens  them  so  you  can  twang  away  all  day  and 
never  feel  it.  And  I  think  they  use,  it,  too,  when 
they  put  up  these  little  cucumber  pickles,  but  I 
won't  be  sure.  Well,  anyways,  you  take  a  good 
deal  of  this  alum  and  some  water  and  cook  them 
together  till  they're  done.  I  don't  remember  now 
how  you  tell  that.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  think 
you  use  a  broom-straw;  as  I  recollect,  that's  for 
cake.  But  when  the  stuff  is  done,  you  put  the 
corn-husk  basket  in  it  and  put  it  away  somewhere 
in  a  still  place  where  nothing  will  bother  it.  As 
the  hot  liquor  cools,  the  alum  settles  on  the  basket, 
and  in  a  few  days  the  graceful,  curving  lines  of 
the  basket  are  all  hidden  by  sharp-pointed,  clear 
chunks  of  alum,  most  beautiful  to  behold.  The 

184 


-ft 

« 


•*; 

•K. 
o 


THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

last  time,  though,  that  I  saw  Aunt  Katy's  alum 
basket,  its  glory  was  departing.  Some  of  the 
crystals  had  come  away,  betraying  the  sordid  sub 
structure  of  corn-husk,  and  such  as  remained  were 
dusty  and  had  lost  their  pristine  ruggedness  of 
contour.  Too  many  pink  tongues  had  been  sur 
reptitiously  extended  in  the  pursuit  of  trustworthy 
information  as  to  whether  it  tasted  as  much  like 
rock-candy  as  it  looked. 

Up  in  Aunt  Katy's  garret  hung  bunches  of 
boneset  (the  tea  of  which  will  cure  'most  any 
thing,  or  ought  to,  for  it's  bitter  enough),  sage, 
pennyroyal,  mint,  catnip  —  I  don't  know  what  all 
kinds  of  "  yarbs,"  good  to  make  the  dinner  smell 
good,  or  to  stew  up  in  a  tin  cup  on  the  back  of 
the  stove  when  anybody  about  the  house  was 
grunty.  These  were  useful,  don't  you  see?  In 
the  Parlor,  on  a  black  velvet  stand  on  the  marble- 
topped  center-table,  covered  with  a  glass  bell,  was 
another  "  yarb,"  which  could  by  no  possibility  be 
of  the  least  account.  It  was  a  Work  of  Art.  The 
plant  had  been  cast  into  scalding  water  and  left 
there  until  its  green  flesh  had  come  off  its  poor  lit- 

187 


OUR  TOWN 

tie  bones,  which  had  then  been  bleached  to  snowy 
whiteness  and  fastened  up  for  exhibition  as  a 
"  skeletonized  plant."  From  what  I  hear  it  must 
have  taken  particular  skill  to  get  it  to  look  right. 

We  are  now  in  a  position  to  generalize  still 
further  on  Art.  Art  is  what  you  would  put  in 
the  Parlor;  and  you  would  put  in  the  Parlor  that 
which  is  of  no  earthly  account  but  has  had  as  much 
skill  and  time  put  on  it  as  if  it  were.  Also,  this 
skill  and  time  must  be  plainly  apparent.  It  must 
advertise  that  the  person  creating  it  could  do  a 
first-rate  job  of  useful  work  if  he  had  a  mind  to, 
but  that  he  doesn't  have  to,  being  a  peg  above  that 
station  of  life. 

As  a  sort  of  radio-active  energy,  Art  percolated 
through  the  walls  of  the  Parlor  backward  through 
the  house  —  the  kitchen,  which  was  the  most  useful 
room,  getting  least  of  those  enlivening  and  beau 
tifying  rays.  There  the  rag  carpet  was  a  hit-or- 
miss.  In  the  sitting-room  red  and  yellow  and  blue 
stripes  with  their  gay  chains  did  what  they  could 
to  dispel  the  horrid  thought  that  Aunt  Katy  was 
using  up  her  old  clothes,  and  her  three  dead  hus- 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

bands'  old  clothes,  and  all  the  rags  she  could  lay 
her  hands  on  honestly  to  cut  up  into  strips  and 
sew  together,  end  to  end,  that  she  might  have 
something  to  cover  the  floor  and  keep  it  warm. 
But  in  the  Parlor,  entirely  free  from  the  least  sus 
picion  of  economy  or  usefulness,  was  a  beautiful 
ingrain  of  such  reds  and  greens  that  I  deny  the 
imputation  that  the  shades  were  drawn  to  keep 
the  sun  from  fading  them.  That  was  done,  not 
out  of  consideration  for  the  ingrain,  but  for  the 
sun;  the  colors  would  have  hurt  his  eyes  and  likely 
put  him  out  of  business. 

Similarly  with  the  quilts  about  the  house. 
Deeply  do  I  regret  my  ignorance  of  all  the  dif 
ferent  patterns  of  quilts.  The  Log  Cabin  I  know, 
the  Eight-pointed  Star  I  know,  the  Hen  and  Chick 
ens,  and  the  Mexican  Feather;  but  when  I  go  out 
in  company  and  the  conversation  turns  on  quilts, 
I  have  to  sit  there  with  my  jaw  hanging,  and  not 
a  word  out  of  me  because  I  don't  want  to  let  on 
how  green  I  am.  But  this  much  I  can  safely  say: 
that  the  quilts  that  were  meant  for  use,  and  where 
company  wasn't  supposed  to  look,  were  made  up 

189 


OUR  TOWN 

of  scraps,  this  from  Adoniram's  "  wammus,"  and 
that  from  Trypheny's   "  tier,"   and  t'other  from 


Her  husband  was  afraid. 

the  old  blue  dress  that  faded  so;  whereas  the  quilt 
upon  the  bed  in  the  spare  bedroom  off  the  Parlor 
was  made  out  of  calico  bought  a-purpose.  I  wish 
I  could  show  you  one  such,  pieced  so  long  ago 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

that  the  frail  fingers  which  made  those  fine  and 
even  stitches  are  now  fully  restored  to  the  earth 
from  whence  they  came.  But  the  colors,  printed 
in  another  age,  as  you  might  say,  are  just  as  bright 
to-day  as  ever.  As  for  the  weavers  of  old  blue- 
and-white  bedspreads  with  their  pretty  patterns,  I 
suppose  they  have  clean  vanished  from  the  earth. 
I  have  one  that  says  in  the  corner:  "  Pyna  Rose, 
Wove  by  Joseph  Buechel,  1847."  I  wonder  what 
he'd  think  to  find  it  a  portiere,  a  sort  of  curio, 
something  they  don't  have  nowadays. 

If  they  don't  have  such  colors  in  ingrain  car 
pets  and  in  calicos  as  they  used  to  have,  neither 
do  they  have  them  in  pictures.  I  don't  mean 
hand-painted  pictures,  but  the  colored  lithographs 
that  used  to  be  before  steel  engravings  with  their 
cool  grays  conferred  distinction  on  the  Parlor.  I 
don't  mean  chromos,  either;  I  mean  the  real  old 
lithographs,  published  by  Currier  &  Ives,  of  Nas 
sau  Street,  New  York  City.  When  you  looked 
upon  those  pictures  you  realized  that  "  Gotham  " 
could  not  be  so  utterly  and  entirely  a  wicked  city 
as  was  portrayed  in  "  Sunshine  and  Shadow  of 

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OUR  TOWN 

New  York,"  all  about  Harry  Hill's,  and  the-ay- 
ters,  and  the  Five  Points,  where  they  would  knock 
you  down  as  quick  as  look  at  you,  and  take  your 
pocketbook  away  from  you,  and  all  like  that. 
There  must  have  been  some  nice  people  there;  at 
any  rate,  Mr.  Currier  and  Mr.  Ives  must  have 
been  nice  people,  or  they  wouldn't  and  couldn't 
have  made  such  nice  pictures. 

There  was  "  Esther,"  for  example,  a  fine-look 
ing  lady,  in  a  short-waisted  dress  cut  low  in  the 
neck,  her  hair  done  up  high  and  a  big  shell  comb 
to  hold  it,  and  three  large,  fat  curls,  glossy  like 
stovepipe  hats,  hanging  in  front  of  each  ear.  And 
there  was  "  General  Winfield  Scott,"  whose  only 
fault  was  that  his  hair  was  a  deep  blue,  like  the 
ocean  wave.  And  there  was  "  The  Sale  of  the 
Pet  Lamb,"  which  deplored  the  commercial  spirit 
of  the  age,  for  it  depicted  in  startling  colors  the 
greed  for  gold  that  would  actuate  an  inhuman 
parent  to  sell  to  a  cold-hearted  butcher  a  house 
hold  pet,  in  spite  of  the  obvious  fact  that  the 
three  children  of  the  said  household,  each  arrayed 
in  a  red,  yellow,  or  blue  frock,  were  weeping 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

copiously  into  a  handkerchief  of  the  same  color 
as  their  respective  frock.  And  when  I  use  the  ex 
pression  "  startling  colors,"  pray  do  not  mistake 
it  for  a  flower  of  rhetoric.  The  colors  were 
startling.  Never  were  such  reds,  so  red  and  in 
flammatory,  such  blues,  so  like  Italian  skies,  such 
yellows,  so  "  yaller." 

It  was  of  another  product  of  these  purveyors 
of  Art  that  Christina  Moots  told,  when  she  cele 
brated  the  glories  of  Mrs.  Hanks's  Parlor.  Being 
"  Pennsylwany  Dutch,"  she  was  a  little  mixed  as 
to  the  genders  of  personal  pronouns,  but  she  knew 
what  she  liked  in  Art,  for  she  declared,  "  Ach, 
my !  Such  a  pretty  picture  she  has  hangin'  up ! 
All  about  Chesus  an'  her  mammy." 

Female  beauty,  historical  portraiture,  and  moral 
and  religious  sentiment  had  their  appeals,  but  no 
true  American  (by  which  I  mean  an  American 
boy)  could  gaze  unmoved  upon  another  picture 
from  the  gifted  hands  of  Mr.  Currier  and  Mr. 
Ives.  I  now  refer  to  the  Work  of  Art  entitled: 
'  The  Gallant  Charge  of  the  Kentucky  Cavalry 
under  Colonel  Marshall  at  the  Battle  of  Buena 

193 


OUR  TOWN 

Vista."  Oh,  say!  Now,  that  was  all  right 
Horses,  you  know,  United  States  horses  and  Mex 
ican  horses  charging  at  each  other  lickety-split, 
and  our  brave  heroes  with  their  s-words  slashing 
at  the  darn  Mexicans,  who  don't  fight  fair  at  all, 
consarn  their  pictures!  Whaddy  you  think? 
They  had  big,  long  spears  that  they  poked  our 
fellows  with,  so  that  they  could  run  a  spear  clear 
through  a  United  Stateser  and  have  it  come  out 
at  his  back  (unless  it  got  caught  on  a  rib,  of 
course)  before  he  could  get  close  enough  with  his 
s-word  to  haggle  up  the  Mexican's  features.  Do 
you  call  that  fair?  Well,  I  don't.  It  didn't  say 
on  the  picture  how  it  all  came  out,  but  our  side 
won;  it  always  does,  because  we're  always  right, 
and  always  fighting  for  liberty;  but  the  way  they 
did  it,  I  guess,  was  this:  Now,  s'posin'  I  was  the 
United  States  man  and  you  were  the  Mexican  man. 
And  you'd  go  to  stick  me  with  your  spear.  And 
I'd  grab  a-holt  of  it  just  like  this,  and  kind  of  pull 
you  along,  changing  my  hold  on  your  spear,  till  I 
got  you  close  up  to  me,  and  then  I'd  hit  you  a 
clout,  just  like  that!  Oh,  excuse  me!  I  didn't 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

go  to  hurt  you.  I  was  just  trying  to  show  you 
how  it  was.  Why!  Does  your  nose  bleed  as 
easy  as  all  that? 

But  the  appeal  of  the  primary  colors,  real 
red,  and  real  blue,  and  real  "  yaller,"  is  too  di 
rect,  and  in  the  process  of  time  "  Esther  "  and 
"  The  Sale  of  the  Pet  Lamb  "  and  "  The  Gallant 
Charge  of  the  Kentucky  Cavalry  under  Colonel 
Marshall  at  the  Battle  of  Buena  Vista  "  drifted 
back  into  the  sitting-room  and  the  kitchen  even, 
before  the  cold-toed  onslaught  of  the  high-class 
steel  engraving.  When  I  gaze  upon  a  steel  en 
graving  I  feel  guiltily  conscious  of  my  lowly  be 
ginnings.  I  am  reminded  that  I  say,  "  I  reckon 
so,"  unless  I  am  very  careful,  when  I  should  say, 
"  I  presume  so."  I  was  never  compelled  when  I 
was  little  to  go  to  dancing-school,  never  forced  to 
sit  on  a  piano-stool  and  drudge  at  Richardson's 
School  for  the  Piano-forte  (to  this  day  I  can 
scarcely  remember  that  it's  thumb  under  for  F  in 
the  right  hand).  I  never  had  early  advantages, 
and  the  steel  engraving  looks  over  my  head  with 
the  cold  hauteur  of  the  better  classes  who  do  not 

195 


OUR  TOWN 

know  that  common  folks  exist.  Far,  far  above 
my  rank  in  life  are  those  who  have  "  Washington 
and  his  Generals-"  and  "Lincoln  and  his  Cab 
inet  "  in  their  parlors,  the  latter  especially  inter 
esting  on  account  of  Mr.  Seward,  who  seems  to 
be  wondering  if  there  isn't  gas  escaping  somewhere, 
or  if  the  folks  haven't  had  picked-up  codfish  lately. 
There  were  no  molten  or  graven  images  with 
their  attendant  moral  obliquities  about  Aunt 
Katy's  parlor,  unless  you  choose  to  include  a  shiny 
china  object  upon  the  mantelpiece,  which  was  be 
lieved  and  asserted  to  be  a  dog,  but  which  one 
might  have  bowed  down  to  and  served  with  a 
clear  conscience,  for  it  was  not  the  likeness  of  any 
thing  in  the  heaven  above,  or  the  earth  beneath, 
or  the  waters  under  the  earth.  It  was  an  orna 
ment,  just  as  were  the  conch-shells  with  their 
glossy,  flesh-hued  lining.  Like  them,  the  china 
dog  demanded  service,  imperious  care  lest  it  be 
broken,  meticulous  wipings  with  a  damp  cloth, 
and  ritual  dustings.  But  there  was  a  distinction 
between  them.  The  china  dog  was  of  the  very 
highest  order  of  aristocracy;  it  rendered  nothing  in 

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THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

exchange  for  all  this  care.  It  didn't  even  pretend 
to.  It  was  exactly  in  the  position  of  those  who 
have  "  an  independent  income."  The  conch-shells 
were  a  grade  below  that.  They  had  to  make 
some  slight  effort  to  pay  their  way. 

You  must  remember  that  while  the  people 
round  about  had  never  seen  a  body  of  water 
larger  than  Silver  Lake,  they  were  all  descendants 
of  seafolk.  The  sea  was  home  to  us,  and  so  eager 
were  we  for  any  news  from  there  that  we  main 
tained  the  conch-shells  in  high  honor,  because  if 
we  held  them  to  the  ear  and  harkened  closely  they 
told  us  what  the  sea  said.  We  could  hear  the  roar 
of  waves  which  the  shells  transmitted  to  us  au 
thentically,  having  that  strange  power.  We  after 
ward  found  out  it  was  but  the  rushing  of  our  own 
blood  we  heard  —  the  salt  sea  within  us. 

There  are  some  that  say  the  Parlor's  doom  was 
sealed  the  day  a  carpenter  named  Carhart  first 
took  notice  that  his  accordion  sounded  louder  and 
finer  when  the  wind  was  sucked  through  the  reeds 
instead  of  being  squeezed  through  them.  That 
meant  the  discovery  of  the  parlor  organ.  Preg- 

199 


OUR  TOWN 

nant  event!  Away  went  tinkling  dulcimers  to  the 
garret  —  always  out  of  tune,  and  poor  things  at 
the  best.  The  parlor  organ  compelled  the  change 
of  the  piano  from  a  luxury  possible  only  to  the 
rich  into  a  necessity  of  life,  within  the  reach  of 
common  folks.  It  made  the  piano  a  whole  lot 
better  instrument  in  the  process  of  leveling  down. 
Make  a  note  of  that.  But  whether  Pa  could  af 
ford  a  piano  or  had  to  get  the  cheaper  organ,  the 
shades  in  the  Parlor  had  to  be  rolled  up  each  day, 
and  in  cold  weather  there  had  to  be  a  fire  there, 
so  that  Elizabeth  Jane  could  do  her  practising, 
thumb  under  for  F  in  the  right  hand,  thumb  under 
for  G  in  the  left  hand.  And  when  Elizabeth  Jane 
got  so  that  she  could  play  a  "  piece  "  without  too 
many  mistakes,  it  was  fare  ye  well  forever  to  the 
cold  and  aristocratic  aloofness  of  the  Parlor  from 
the  daily  round,  the  common  task. 

Carhart  helped;  I  grant  you  that.  But  I  main 
tain  that  the  disappearance  of  the  Parlor  was  cos 
mic,  elemental,  the  outworking  of  great  economic 
forces,  one  manifestation  of  the  spirit  of  the  age 
which  summons  up  on  quo  warranto  proceedings 

200 


THE  PARLOR  BACK  HOME 

every  man-made  institution,  and  would  have  it 
show  cause  why  it  should  longer  stay  on  the  pay 
roll.  "  What  good  are  you?  "  it  wants  to  know 
of  every  man  and  every  set  of  men.  The  old- 
time  aristocratic,  idle,  useless  Parlor  went  because 
it  was  more  bother  than  it  was  good.  Take  warn 
ing,  all  in  the  same  line  of  business! 

I  never  could  see  that  the  idling-place  about  a 
house  had  any  better  right  to  be  prettier  than  the 
working-place  about  the  house.  Whether  it  was 
the  First  Isaiah  or  the  Second  Isaiah  that  wrote  the 
fortieth  chapter  of  the  book  of  that  name,  I  don't 
know  or  care.  He  had  good  ideas,  whichever  one 
he  was,  and  when  he  says :  u  Every  valley  shall 
be  exalted,  and  every  mountain  and  hill  shall  be 
made  low,"  I'm  right  with  him,  whether  the  sen 
timent  apply  to  house-furnishing  or  —  or  —  other 
matters. 


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